


Shadow Engines | Enigma Perception

by NebulaViburnum



Series: Shadow Engines [1]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bisexuality, Body Horror, Child Abuse, Drama & Romance, Drug Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Empathy, Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship/Love, Horror, Multi, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Mythology - Freeform, Original Character(s), Pansexual Character, Physical Abuse, Psychological Drama, Psychological Horror, Psychology, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Sexual Abuse, Survival Horror, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 07:24:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 206,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3887425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NebulaViburnum/pseuds/NebulaViburnum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waylon Park didn't intend to meet Miles Upshur. But they did. Waylon and Miles make a team of unexpected proportions. Along the way, Waylon reminisces about his time in the Murkoff corporation: he remembers how the creepy Andrew fixated on him...and his  "secret admirer" was his boss, Jeremy Blaire. Survival is the least of their worries as Miles is Walrider-stricken. Wernicke's group of "friends" and enemies seem allies to their cause staying alive and going than just exposing details of a project. The Twins and Eddie Gluskin become unlikely bedfellows. While Waylon and Miles are hopping from different states to different countries what happens when Miles feels his core is soothed by Waylon? And his Walrider is not the only one. Darian is one who is sent by Murkoff's sibling company with his own Walrider and he is the just one of them. Will this unlikely group rewrite the Morphogenic equation in a direction Wernicke and Murkoff did not expect?</p>
<p>Part 1 now of a larger body of work. </p>
<p>Chapters  17 & 18 for  people who  can't wait for some fireworks.  Bear with me Total WIP</p>
<p>IT'S FINISHED :D NOW FOR BOOK 2</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

** Mountain Air **

  
Sometimes, he wondered about these people. They seemed dead. In a way goldfish-eyes look when they have hit the subtle edges of glass or contracted an infection. 

They talked to him normally. Briefly and succinctly. _En pointe_. Nothing that was detailed. Nothing too abstract. Nothing excess. By the business as they said. Never more.

Waylon Park burned his tongue on the coffee. "Ouch..." partly obfuscated by the stinging extension of his tongue. Coffee felt more alive than the personnel here. That was pretty much a sign of "Waylon get your way out."

"Nice tongue." A fully suited doctor, the sort of scrubs that made you ponder on radiation fallouts, commented making Waylon spin and look at him sceptically and a bit nervous. "Healthy red." The man commented again making Waylon retract his tongue into the soft and hard shells of lips and mouth, questionably, nervously, looking, "Kinda bright with a singe." The man looked at him with a smile, eerie, "I presume you are Waylon Park. The programmer that helps MIR connection to our engine? I am Andrew." 

There was no handshake. But Waylon politely replied, "Nice to meet you, I guess." Sufficiently, he added that. 

The eyes looked at him. Surveyed his body in a way that felt sexual and not comfortable. "I guess we will see each other seeing you are our main patch up guy." Waylon noticed that Andrew licked his lips and he was pretty much started drinking his hot coffee again to wash that feeling of uneasiness away. 

“Well, they will call me when they need me.” Waylon answered with passive interest; a shrug.

Andrew smiled creepily again, “The engine is our own prized baby I find it easy to say that they will need you a lot. We will be _closely_ , working together.” The stress on the proximity made Waylon almost drop his coffee.

Waylon hadn’t thought back to this conversation…until he faced the licking tongue; after Andrew showed a very mocking sense of concern for him. It seemed that Andrew was liking that his incarceration (or rather corporate betrayal and endangerment) allowed him to be so close to Waylon. Waylon groaned out of protest; he wanted to vomit then and there.

This man was so sick…

Sometimes he wondered.

But he didn’t know that then. Like he didn’t know much about Eddie Gluskin or Miles Upshur. Or even Jeremy Blaire.

That Jeremy Blaire was a “secret admirer” of sorts. In the two weeks he had been there, there was an incident on how all his coffee mugs (two to be exact) had been broken and his stationery strewn about but in the middle of that chaos was — inarguably the weirdest thing — a new mug, expensive actually, with  the purple and red stripes on it, and brewed in it was very A grade coffee.

At first, he thought it was that sicko Andrew.

It was kinda weird when he realised it was Jeremy Blaire. Waylon had thought Jeremy had despised him; he somewhat did. But there was also a sense of liking, a bit condescendingly, but a bit sexual. And he didn’t know why.

When he had got on top of Waylon, the stab not so deep, but like a warning, Jeremy mouthed: “So tender, fuck, like it at times. Fuck, you are so annoying.” Jeremy smiled, “I will let you get out of here if only you let that mouth work a different kind of reveal.” That is when Jeremy had kissed him, hard, unapologetic, malicious, tuned into him, using his weight expertly to make him feel as though he wanted to push into him and possess him. Waylon gargled and Jeremy bit his lip, tugging it slightly, as a sort of punishment, “You are not getting out of here Waylon unless you become my little boy-toy. It’s kinda inevitable by this point don’t you think so?”

But then that black shadow hurled him hard against the wall. Jeremy was knocked cold. Maybe, broke a few bones the right kind of way.

Waylon had got out.  That’s when he saw…Miles, engulfed by the swarm of nanomachines, The Walrider feeding into him, a perfect host of sorts…Waylon didn’t start the car as he saw the figure approach…

Then he saw, that with eyes slightly glowing at a preternatural level Miles came close to his window side: “I ‘ll let you drive.”

“What about the…” 

“The swarm may become more settled if I get out of here.” Miles talked a bit slowly, “The engine here fuels too much static in a way.”

Waylon opened the door. After they got out Waylon saw the swarm shift right into Miles’s body and he shrieked as the pressure of the Walrider made more force…the body convulsed…for about ten minutes a quiet pulled through and the car moved and Waylon was silent…scared and…so scared…

“Fuck…” Miles got up making Waylon almost drive off the road, “That was an epic fuck of pain…” Miles vomited blood. It got on Waylon’s bare feet a bit. But Waylon breathed heavy; then sighed relieved.

“ You are alive.”

“I want to keep it that way.” Miles said determinedly. “I don’t know the odds of this fucking shit thing in me or what is the probability of me dying or wreaking havoc elsewhere. I just know this is something I have to bear. If my life is borne this way so be it; no suicidal desires here.”

Waylon nodded, “I don’t want to kill you…” It felt ironical, who _could_ or would kill who…after all the death machine was not in Waylon.

A silence followed. Miles was shot but…he seemed to be become a bit more stable… a bit more coherent…”By the way I am Miles.” 

“Upshur.” Waylon looked fast. It took a second for Miles to register then smiled.

“So, my anonymous source and I. Finally together.”

“I am so sorry….” Waylon felt like crying, “I fucking didn’t know as much…”

“Well, you weren’t supposed to.” Miles looked a bit concerned, “That was my job. Now I am too deep, up shore without a paddle huh…”

Waylon shed a tear.

“Look water works can take a hike. You need to be resolute.” Miles brought out a pack of cigarettes, lit one.

Waylon, by instinct, popped the windows a bit.

The mountain air was cold but not so much. It had hints of some embers. A caress on the hair and face. The air felt natural and untampered with. After being in an asylum that did almost anything to control Waylon loved this autonomous phenomenon that required no megalomaniac interference.

Miles looked peaceful. Smoking. There was an aura surrounding him. His eyes more shades deeper than blue; a dimension of grey and black swept in.

“Wanna listen to some music?” The question was somewhat rhetorical; nonchalant in its delivery.

The word “music” made Waylon remembered Eddie Gluskin’s song. It was so haunting and so disturbingly fucked up.

“Anything outrageous. Nothing too soft.”

“Wow…” Miles smiled, “So specific.”

Miles looked at his iPod and turned on Hotel California.

The tone was appropriate. Classic rock. The theme similar. Ironic but somewhat as inviting as the mountain breeze.

“What are we gonna do now...?”

They were ten tracks in. They had listened to “Anaconda” (Both versions), Mudshovel by Staind, BYOB by System of a Down, Stan by Eminem and the last song on was Pistachio. A soft ballad.

“You will have to give the evidence.” Miles laughed, a metallic sort of inhuman ring hung on it, as though the Walrider laughed with him, “This new birthday suit ain’t gonna look cleaner even if I take a bath.”

Waylon nodded.

“For now, I need to call my —“

“Best not to.”

“But my wife is worried.”

“You need to understand that we are way in over our heads.”

“We can crash in a motel.”

“I got some cash…” Miles took out a plastic stash within the false cover of the glove compartment, “That good enough for your motel agenda.”

They did crash.

Side by side. Double bed. Miles felt less tired. Figured it was the ever growing curiosity of the bastard Walrider. Waylon just zipped away to the land of sleep. Too tired for a complete dream. Too tired for a nightmare to wake him.

Miles felt calm.

Sleep came in strange intervals.

Inside his head the Walrider asked him some questions. Made some observations.

_“That one is pretty.”_

_You are talking about the man?_ Miles asked the thing.

_Yes. Waylon Park. Cute is that the word…?_

_You know the word “cute” — what else you know?_   Miles was a bit annoyed.

_“Blood and bone and flesh and heads…different heads…your head nice and good…body strong…”_

At one point, Miles felt an erection.

Before he knew what was happening he saw the Walrider appear…afraid he almost jerked Waylon off the bed but then — he struggled not to scream as he felt his dick brought out and being sucked by the thing…in a half-dream state he felt the nano-creature take his member and suck it. With some viscous fluid for something akin to saliva frothing from his mouth…

_“Make you feel better, Miles….”_

Miles tried to suppress the grunts and moans. Waylon waking up to see him sucked off by this fuck…couldn’t handle that shit.  Why the fuck was this creature doing this?

As if, knowingly, it answered: _“Make us on good terms.”_

_You fuck! Nothing like that is gonna—_

_“Shush…pretty human…strong human…lively human…”_

Miles came hard. The Walrider was pleased. _“Oh, we are so much closer now.”_

Miles nearly puked. The feeling was odd. Pleasurable but too intense. Painfully absentminded too. Like he was here and _not_ here.

“Not in your fucking lifecycle you parasite.” Miles hoarsely cursed under his breath.

_“You belong to me now…”_ a strain in his muscles reminded Miles of the shared body, _“I belong to you. Parasites don’t belong.”_

“You are a very flimsy lover you fucking cocky piece of shit.” Miles laughed under his breath, “You forgot Billy so soon?”

_“Billy, what is left of his physicality methinks, is in me. Served his purpose. Lacks your spine so to speak.”_

“Such eloquence in bashing your former host. Who invited a cunt like you to this party I wonder.”

A quiet laughed rambled his brain. Walrider secure tight in some streams of consciousness. Bonded with his brain cells. A poltergeist in some ancient thriving hallway. A spectral Frankenstein. A frightening beacon that illuminated human madness. It rode the walls of human decadence and despair and depravity. Hence the name.

“Are you _only_ Billy?” The question was a basis of its own. A morphogen in its own right.

_“No. I am many tissues of thoughts and actual neural neuroticism and psychopathy. A pathological machine but also nuanced by different personas. But yes, I have predominantly Billy’s feelings. It will change. I grow more earnestly than the standard foetus.”_ Then almost derogatively, _“I liked Billy’s anger. It had been very useful…useful…so useful…but his sadness felt pretty oedipal. His momma was a bitch anyway; why care if she lived or died? I see those kind of human vessels to be pretty annoying.”_

“Why _me_?”

_“Your body….so beautiful…so endurable….so a mix of rage and lights…a poached egg in a petri dish of possibilities.”_

Miles noticed that the Walrider shifted between child-like speech and then something more jargon like. It was a shift in a morphological linguistic engine it possessed. From low level consciousness to some form of acute awareness. It was fearful. This Frankenstein with and within him.

Waylon’s soft sigh made him look.

Peacefully, yet exhaustedly, the man slept.

_“See, that is a beautiful one. I heard someone call him; yeah he is the darling.”_

“ A mathematical darling?”  Miles chuckled a bit.

Then he too fell asleep.

* * *

 

“You know the beauty of us is that we both are alike.”

“Fuck you — ARGHHHH!”

 A cutting of a finger. Which hand Andrew could not understand.

“Now, Andrew, be nice.”

Andrew meekly looked as a dark shadow engulfed the other man’s body calmly. “Fuck…please…Daryl was it…please don’t…”

“Now doctor…” the platinum blonde with red highlights in his hair spoke, “You wanna see what a successful lateral ascension looks like?”

A Walrider with livid red eyes stabbed Andrew in his right arm making him scream.

“Slicestorm, let’s hear him scream.” Daryl looked at the bleeding man, “So, what was the name of yours and Jerry’s mutual cock-stiff attraction?”

“Way…Waylon Park…” Andrew had puked. The pain was unbearable.

“Ah, Miles’s informant…”  Daryl smiled, “I read your journal. You have some _real_ hardcore sexual fantasies concerning that guy Waylon.” Daryl spat on him, “You fucking ugly shit!”

Then he punched him as his Walrider cooed.

“You really think Waylon and you are in the same league; white collar doctor scum always think on shit like that.” Daryl looked pretty livid but then calmed into a colder smile. “Waylon, what was his like….Can I read an observation…?”

Systematically, he brought out a journal with no lines. The handwriting Andrew recognized as his own. “Ah, the journals of Andrew Lanes, I have to admit this may not win a chance in Oprah’s book club but some of these passages are pretty interesting.” In a tone that mocked careful intonation Daryl read a passage:

> “I met today a delicious body named Waylon Park. Now, there was a fine boy. Looks like a timid person. Beautiful eyes that look so nervous and he spilled coffee. Oh how yummy. I love to tie him up and see him cry. Fuck him so hard he forgets anything but the fuck. I have also noticed Jeremy Blaire asking about him. Blaire troubles me because I think we are similar in our interests, singular in our intentions, but not the same. I hate to lose ungracefully to higher brass. Waylon has to be mine. I love how surprised he looked when I checked him out. That innocence about him. Like he doesn't know that he is so sexually attractive. It’s a fucking turn on at times. I heard he has a wife and two sons. Funny, I pegged him to be a celibate sort of person. I figure he is a vanilla fucker to his wife. I wanna masturbate him and tell him all about me and him fucking his wife so hard that she can’t walk straight. I want to know how Waylon looks like when he is moaning. That fucking tongue though. So cute and pink.  I want it around my cock.  That cute little face. Yum. I really don’t understand how he gets around without getting fucked hard by anyone and anything. I think I saw some of the guards touch their penises instinctively looking at him. What a cute man. I wonder if our resident asshole, that Gluskin fucker would want him, that day I tied Gluskin and slapped his penis. And he cried. That stupid fuck. Crying about rape and shit. Motherfucker. Or shall I say fatherfucker lolz. What a cream. What a stupid excuse of a serial killer. I just want Waylon’s cock and ass right now. Fuck, I am jerking off hard right now…”

Daryl them smiled in a way that made Andrew frightened, “You aren’t a patient sort of fuck are you?” Daryl laughed, “And this is the first of many entries. Seriously, hear yourself mulling quim.”

Suddenly, the red eyed Walrider grabbed Andrew’s cock so tight that he  felt it was gonna dig its talons right into it making him scream and cry for dear life. All Daryl did was hit him, a slap to be exact: “Oh did someone hit you…” the dialogue was eerily familiar; he had once mouthed the same set of words to a semi-conscious Waylon Park while exposing him to the Morphogenic engine. Andrew had remembered the familiar screams but Waylon’s breaths, sighs and screams sounded sweeter. Despite the Hope problem he had a partial erection. Instinctively, nostalgically, he in his state blinded by pain, darted his eyes to Daryl’s pants. There was no erection. None visible or half done. Yet, something told him that Daryl was getting his kicks out of this.

And like Blaire this guy was on a different level.

That is when Andrew feels it. Blood. Dripping down his legs and an insurmountable amount of pain. His penis is scratched up and bleeding like a bitch. Andrew starts crying. It is dilapidated in sobs, whimpers and hard breathing. It isn’t a yell. But it as bloody as his dick. Though still _attached_ to his body.

“Don’t worry.” Daryl pats him on his shoulder, Andrew’s breath is caught, and it is his wounded right arm, another conciliatory move, condescendingly, sadistically, delivered, “I have no reason to mimic Gluskin. I am an artist not an amateur. Gluskin is too fucked up in the wrong places, no?” Rhetorically placed he continues, “ I think we have found  our common ground; how  exciting.” He clasped his hands together in a playful manner, “The more I study you, I see similarities, however poorly, to myself.” The he became blank. No smile. Andrew could feel danger whiz by as if a sniper was readying aim, “I hate that you have similar tastes to me but you execute them so fucking poorly.” With lightning reflexes Daryl punched him first in the face, making Andrew’s face move and hit the wall he was hanging from, suspended by his limbs, and then his gut, making him lose consciousness. “Not to mention…” Daryl punched him again, “You can’t take hits even if your life depends on it. Even Hope’s Walrider found you too disgusting to eat.”

A call on a cell phone. The music was “No strings on me” Pinocchio’s edit. Daryl, hands bloodied by Andrew, went and caught the  call: “Hello?” then he smiled, “Hi Dad.”

“I explicitly told me not to call me that.”

Daryl then turned blank but sour, “Wernicke, I shouldn’t have rescued your ass. You can take Billy being a puss but not someone closer…?” Then screaming, “I mastered this Walrider first and you know it Dad!” Then breathing hard, “Billy couldn’t even get his Walrider out of the close proximity of the engine. The fucker was confined to Mount Massive. The nanomachines also felt a _paranoia_ coupled with _claustrophobia_ …” he stressed it, “That also made them go berserk!”

“Billy wanted to see his own mother. You are not even my _own_ son. Billy made me a puppet-father. The boy came from poverty. Never knew his own father. I treated him as a person. I talked to him. That made me inevitably special to him. Of course, it was not truly my aim to be special to Billy Hope. After all, can’t be so close to the subject.” Wernicke factuality made Daryl happier than ever. “You know Daryl, you are more than a subject. But I do not always like the means of normal reproduction. To me it’s too primordial.”

“Well, I love calling you Dad because you look like a dad, Dad.” Daryl smiled, even though the smile was not to be seen or felt up-close, Wernicke gave a sigh, a peaceful one, that issued that he felt the warmth of it, the meaning of it. “I know you like it; to an _extent_.” 

Wernicke approvingly grunted, “Well, true to that I suppose dear boy.” Then a bit seriously, “I hope you haven’t tortured Mr. Andrew Lanes too much.”

“I am keeping him alive.” Daryl stated looking at his nails. There was a sign of a manicure done previously and so Daryl looked annoyingly at the blood which prompted him to kick the unconscious body of said Andrew Lanes. Then he grabbed his Walrider’s hands to check out his talons and the Walrider, like a dutiful child, presented them henceforth. “You never said I _couldn’t_ torture him Dad.”

“Mr. Lanes is a vital part of our research team. I am disappointed that he was too, let us shall, _fond_ of some of our patients. After all, I did not say he could administer any other stimulation as such. The patients we picked were already hyper-stimulated. That being said don’t make Andrew Lanes look like he has made collective trips around the Morphogenic engine room, okay?”

“Sure, sure Dad.” Daryl pushed away Slicestorm’s talon-hands a bit roughly, but then caressed his skeletal face allowing the Walrider to coo.

“Miles Upshur is now the host of Walrider XY6.” Wernicke informed making both Daryl and his Walrider look attentive. Daryl was a bit surprised.

“Isn’t he just a freelance journalist?”

“I am afraid I underestimated the man myself. My calculations were all incorrect. A little newsy couldn’t have possibly done all that he did. He had potential. XY6 saw that. It is always such an _annoyance_ when your machine reads people better is it not? I think the Walrider did panic for a while when Billy Hope died or was _close_ to it…But Miles Upshur had made it this far and I think the Walrider knew that he was a better candidate than Billy. More stable. Less angry. XY6 may have gotten tired of sharing Billy’s wailing cerebral impulses. After all no one can help him when he made the institution go to rot. If he wanted to visit his mother that badly all he needed was asked me to put her on the phone after a while…oh yeah she died…well, he should have moved on.” Wernicke talked as though it was all a classical study, a report, the casualties and injuries just plain static-statistics. Interfering with the channel’s actual receptions.  

Daryl laughed, “So XY6 has a good host.” Then as Daryl stroked his Walrider’s face, “XY6 is still pretty rudimentary right? Hasn’t had any special qualities? What about Miles? Was it consensual…?” Laughs at the innuendo inappropriately placed.

“No.” Wernicke stated, “I sent Miles to destroy Billy hoping such a basic Walrider would soon dissolve and die without a host but it inherited the fear of Billy’s mind and it latched itself on to Miles. I have to say XY6 really did impress me. It is the first Walrider to actually transfer itself into another so easily. Without much aggression. I am even surprised that for Miles staying amongst the Mount Massive Asylum’s engine was actually problematic rather than an increase in Walrider activity. This is where Miles and Billy, possibly due to age, intelligence and circumstances, are different. Miles has motivation to live whilst Billy had not much except rage.”

“Too much rage is not good for Walrider and host.” Daryl commented as he stroked the head of Slicestorm, who apparently slightly stabbed one of Andrew’s toes, as though it was some leftover food on the plate of a child.

“You must know a lot about Miles Upshur and Waylon Park. Address Andrew as appropriate to the task. I have a place for him in Murkoff, do not torture him too badly.”

“Fine, with some pleasure, I will not fully indulge.” Daryl sighed as Slicestorm swallowed one of Andrew’s toes consequently biting it off and eating it, with Daryl chuckling, then more seriously continuing, “What about Eddie Gluskin and The Twins?”

“Gluskin will be the appropriate little hound to sniff out Park. The Twins’ motives are not known. If they interfere; you have my permission to eradicate them.”

Daryl grinned, “I thought they were part of the successful batch Dad.”

“Too successful. I need good drones, not happy-go-lucky machete wielding individuals who mix hedonistic flare with a sort of religious earnestness. Unless they bend to you, open up to a possibility, don’t need them.” Wernicke sounded bored but then with interests piqued, “But Waylon Park showed some _different_ readings in the Morphogenic engine. I would very much like him alive.”

“Why not use Park’s family?”

“I rather keep that as a trump card. Besides, Lisa Park has moved away with the boys. I want to know if Waylon feels the same about her anymore. He is a changed man. Maybe his nobility will not allow him to be close to contact with his own family in person. He would want to shield them from all that he has endured.” 

Daryl laughed, “Aww, so cute and sweet. I wonder if I slightly prick Waylon’s fingertips is he going to bleed red or liquid cotton candy.”

* * *

  
 

Waylon silver-grey eyes looked at the full-length mirror in the motel room. It was a simple frame of wood with some cheap metal; had the colour of light brown and the metal was coloured the same. Surveying his cuts, bruises, trails of pinkish-bluish-greenish daubs. The hair was a mess of greasy darkened chestnut. Lisa had said he the eyes of a wolf but he was like the Australian platypus or a chimera with a sphinx’s side because he was a wolf amalgamated with the characteristics of other animals. Fondly, he remembers, this observation was one of the many reasons he had fallen in love with her and married her. Lisa had also said that he pondered math like one pondered poetry. She was also a mathematician by trade and education and passion, like him, though her execution was different. She took math with a bit of a surgeon’s zeal. More logically than he.

Waylon looked at his cock. _Still intact_. He gulped. He could still remember Eddie’s treatment of him. It was horrendous. He had started crying when he realised that Eddie was hell-bent in _castrating_ him, his darling. It was one of the most horrible moments of his life. _God, bless the guy who attacked him_ …Waylon recollects the man who came and punched Eddie and basically saved his cock. Eddie screaming after the other inmate, “Get back here! Not done dying yet you slut!”

Waylon did not understand Eddie. His need to feminize men he thought were “pretty enough” or covetable enough to suit as “woman.” _But I am not at all an effeminate man_ …Waylon was annoyed as he looked as his cock and his appearance, _But then again he did say I was special and_ … Waylon remembered the last order of code he took was to strap in Gluskin and he saw what happened to the guy’s face. _That time Gluskin did say I can help him. For some reason, he seemed trustful or rather at ease with me. Makes me nervous._ Waylon shudders.

Eddie Gluskin’s psychosis was augmented by the engine; his need to kill women so bad that he made makeshift ones to just kill them. But, why? Why did he hate them so much? Waylon wondered what kind of disgusting “pearl” was the girl that “married dear old Dad.”  Was it Gluskin’s mom? If so, why was his vision of the perfect woman so oedipal and twisted? And…then Waylon remembered the file thrown out the window about Eddie Gluskin…pictures taken by his dad and uncle…so he was molested and maybe even raped…and his mom just watched… _Yuck, God, if he was a pedo fuck his dad he would keep a passive woman like his mom around or maybe Eddie Gluskin thought he did. “Only girl daddy every had” my ass. That monster did stuff to his own son…yuck…_ Waylon shuddered more.

Waylon looked at Miles asleep. The preternatural energy was there but its confluence was slightly altered, at rest. Waylon looked at Miles, his skin was tanner than his. Hair a darker shade of brown, a deeper brunette. Face more chiselled. Annoyed, he thought, _Would Gluskin consider Miles “woman” material too?_ But then the answer came either way. Miles was a bit like Eddie, as in, more explicitly baritone and meaner in appearance. But at the same time Miles too had good bone structure. And had fine skin if not a bit coarser than his. It could pan out either way. _Would Gluskin see Miles as a…rival?_   The thought oddly entered his head because Miles had easily interacted with Waylon. Would that provide jealousy in relation to Miles?

Waylon was too tired. Thinking was getting him exhausted. He decided a quick shower or bath with more sleep was the only programming he should be doing at the moment.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Titbits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has Eddie Gluskin and Jeremy Blaire!

 

**Titbits**

 

The water is cold. But not so much. Waylon can feel a rawness, unkempt flesh crying out as the external stimuli in clashing waves of water makes him feel frigid at some places, a sharp pull in others, making him sigh and moan, perpetually, through the tiled bathroom. The porcelain tub looks clean enough but it smells a bit but he is happy because this is paradise compared to the rotten flesh, boiling flesh, putrid flesh and fresh flesh with all the blood that came from almost every inch and crack of the asylum.

Waylon doesn’t know what was worse. The coarse façade of sanitation in the walls before the outbreak of the Walrider. Those so-called neutral pools of grey, white and subtle soft colours that screamed hospitalisation and research. Or the change in décor (sarcastically speaking) when blood, guts, puke, slime and other unknown hazards mucked up the walls. That place is a nightmare in different shades.

The blood and grime and slime was mixing with the water. After ten minutes Waylon just got out and unplugged to let out the tub water and gave a short rinse in the shower. Then put in more water, more of some rough, non-existent bubble foam that smelled hygienic enough and just laid down again. His bones ached like a rocking chair weathered by an old life and by the winds that surrounded said life.

The angry pink felt a mixture of neon with some velvety baby blush on his right side collarbone. A kinky thought accompanied: Would Lisa like to suck it better? Fuck, I am tired, Waylon thought exhaling. The thought of sex — lovemaking to be exact — made him tremble, want, hunger. It was an initiation back to the normal way to deal with sensory overload; a clean yet nicely dynamic way of knowing strength, consolation, convictions without conscience and conscientiousness clashing as the teeth of a cannibal gone wild. At least normal for him. Calm, can be succinct, superfluous, and balanced: all the notes of the organ as the right organs move about.

Outside is a cool breeze. Mountainous, adventurous, cold, yet alluring. The gales were secretive of their intents. They were not so subtle, not so aggressive. This is one of the mystical elements of certain mountain ranges. They could be pretty much effects affected into a prism combination of sounds, winds, emotional and nature rifts. But the mountain range of this particular neighbourhood is a bit stiff, a bit reserved; under that coat of adventurous zeal Waylon deciphers something enigmatic. Something unformed or rather unsure or perhaps a bit too hungry to find things out. Waylon realises this unformed attribute served Murkoff’s interests a lot. They liked to be people who had bouts of curiosity akin to spasms that could be described as hysteria. Ironically, asylums are that greyish area where the etymology and epistemology of sanity is always put in quotations.

Shadows outside had their ritualistic dances. Waylon swore he saw some shadows move too fast and fluid for the resilience of leaves and branches but he decided to mouth a “fuck it” — in the asylum his senses was so on overdrive; he preferred this porcelain lounge to be just that. The water was becoming colder. The window above the bath had half-lit curtains of lace and was slightly ajar. Outside some crickets hummed on their lives. It was a night, evening widely awake, peaceful yet windy.

His thoughts still encircled the perimeter of his sex. A bit wide eyed Waylon looked down at his cock. Intact. That word was now so steadfast in his opinions of his cock. The penis looked a bit traumatically tired. After feeling almost all of his genitalia hacked off he realised his dick could deserve a breather. But then stirrings made his penis half-awake. Groggily it seemed to be looking at him, with a question like “are we going?” and the resistance to masturbation waned down.

Waylon slowly touched his dick. Gentle and smooth, with the hands of some sort of potter. Moaning a bit he closed his eyes and imagined the silky skin and eyes of Lisa. Intimacy was necessary. There was no roundabout way to this. He needed to feel love and be loved: ironically, by himself, but doing it proper, with his free radicals made him happy. He caressed his nipples, his navel (he loved tongue to circle it and kiss his abdomen), the side of his arms — all his erogenous centres. He cried out a bit loudly as he slowly but generously pumped his cock.

The thoughts of Lisa suddenly were changed. Waylon saw Miles. Miles had a throat that was so muscular and had good vein accents that he wanted to kiss it. The thought was not dissuaded by him. Though he didn’t really care for men that way this little fantasy should just go on. Waylon was too tired and so in dire need of an orgasmic ejaculation.

That is when he felt a mouth. So tired and confused he did not see the person it belonged to. The person sucked a bit amateurishly, a bit too fast, his own hands were still on…opening his eyes made him regret the action…in absolute fear he saw  that Walrider clamp on his cock and suck vigorously…Should he scream? What the fuck….what should he do?

Waylon could not suppress his moans of feeling. It wasn’t totally pleasurable anymore. This was more automatic now. But then the Walrider mimicked his own actions of caressing nipples, abdomen and all of that. Waylon breathed in. Then cried as he felt the Walrider suck slower now. As though knowing a routine.

As Waylon Park came he saw the Walrider look ecstatic.

Then it touched Waylon’s chest a bit seductively but a lot affectionately. “ _Close to you now too cuteness.”_

The metallic voice, like foils chalk-like needles scratching, made him look meekly at thing. _Too?_ Waylon registered sleepily. But the Walrider disappeared. Maybe, back to Miles again.

In the other room, Miles head jerked as he realised that some of the Walrider’s feelings were now fusing with his — oh fuck! Blowjob of Park! — Miles could see the act and though he felt it as a voyeur would he (so away from the deed) it still felt like some scopophilic nightmare. Not really because it was Waylon — well, he hadn’t really been with guys; it was more than the Walrider looked so content and felt so natural. Like it was made to borne these kind of _responsibilities_ too. Like some extended penile arm it was meant to jerk you off. Nah, it sounded pretty like some mutation of some perverted wet dream. Preferred the basics. Fortunately, at this moment, Miles was not aware that Waylon had begun pleasuring himself when the Walrider gate-crashed.

As a faithful symbiotic it came crawling back to his skin, flesh and bones, cooing with a slightly less volatile pattern as the Morphogenic engine. The Walrider’s satisfaction annoyed Miles. “Don’t do that.” Miles made the much need effort to reign in his phantasm.

 _“What, leave without permission?”_ The Walrider laughed softly.

“You know what I mean.” Miles was gaining some authoritarian index in his voice.

_“You can’t stop me from tending to his little sexualities…so pretty…so pretty when he came…arghhh…so fucking hot…”_

“You sure have a nice mouth for a skeletal, ghost-blot, freak of nature.” Miles snapped, “Just leave him alone.”

 _“You should sleep.”_ The Walrider had his attention elsewhere.

Miles was too tired to argue.

Back at the bathtub, Waylon thought he saw an interested eye look at near the window, but then it disappeared as Waylon reacted by getting more upright. _I need to sleep more_.

Waylon wrapped a robe around him and just slipped into his boxers as he crashed once more next to Miles.

 

 

* * *

 

The room was so cold. It was not pleasant. Well, it felt a bit numbing.

“Fuck me, fuck…” Jeremy Blaire got up a bit vehemently and looked at his surroundings a bit clearly, then understood he was in an ICU and that all of him hurt like a bitch. He didn’t care or need to know where in the hell on Earth was he because doctors in lab coats and MPs had a wiggling memory of status and satiation. Yet, he hurt like a bitch.

The room was frigid. The antiseptic plague plagued it. There was no cracks, no collections of dust or cobwebs. The word “clean” here had undergone both a Botox surgery and a cyborg augmentation. The smell of plastics and metals cascading into a well-oiled machine that twittered and creaked with the nodes of allopathic medicines and catalysed chemicals. The room was white with some spot of grey; the usual _tableaux rasa_ that institutionalised science has incorporated into its artillery of “characteristics” — the contradictions were evident because most people came here with something already with them. White walls were the common denominator that allowed things to be collected as in spurts of blood vividly across its belly of paint. The ICU he was in was top notch: with him were other executives, only a handful of soldiers and other doctors. One exec started screaming that a Frank with eat him at a lunch conference — poor man had to be sedated.  

Jeremy realised that he was the only person in the room who pretty much was superficially and anatomically _correct_.

The other guys lacked appendages, some were de-limbed, and others looked not really there as attendants re-bandaged lose chucks of missing flesh. Jeremy hurt but he was still a tin man with much tin in him so to speak.

“Jeremy, all the bones in your body are broken.”  Wernicke’s German-accented English was something he recollected easily, “The good news is that Murkoff and its sibling companies do use enhanced medicines to ease the pain so to speak; you have been given a derivative of morpheme that helps you stay a bit more coherent that actual morpheme comprises too much. And you are given a serum, a bit of a wonder drug, that allows the body to heal faster. This is A grade treatment. Even if you had failed your mission you did fight admirably.”

“Your boy Billy Hope almost killed me.” Jeremy spat.

“No, it was Miles Upshur. Let’s say the ‘lateral ascension’ of the Walrider went to ‘contralateral ascension’: though this has never really happened in a short amount of time. Billy Hope is pretty much dead. The Walrider, XY6, has expertly, I might add, decided to choose a more robust and pliable body-type and individual, so to speak.”

“’Pretty much dead’ is yo-yoing right?” Jeremy groaned. In his sort of drowsy state he remembered who Miles Upshur was. The security guards with him did indicate that a freelance investigative journalist was hounding the place. And he had researched on him after Waylon had sent the tip. The resume was impressive. Impressive enough for Jeremy to prolong his stay at Mount Massive that day because he thought his wits and smarts were needed to sucker punch the lights out of this expected yet buoyant nemesis of his corporate allegiance.

Wernicke pointed at the end of this white capsule cell of a room and Jeremy saw a bloodied bed, the body was broken and subject to lacerations. The eyes open but not really open. His name was a sham for Billy Hope was not at all a beacon to his namesake. “He is in a vegetative state. I am impressed he survived multiple shut downs of life support systems. I wonder if he just wants to see his mother. I guess he might die very soon. Children and their simple desires. It was that simplicity and the extension of it that made Billy a perfect host for a basic Walrider. At my calculations at that time was right: ‘lateral ascension’ happened faster than expected due to ancillary circumstances. Frank Manera was obviously a lost cause. You don’t need a food disorder like some skinny model attempted to control a Walrider, I don’t think it’s possible for such a specimen of limited interests to patch up to the nanomachines. The Walrider understands a simple hunger expressed eloquently, complexly, loves the adrenaline torches of willpower. Cannibalism is hardly any of those things. Not surely Frank’s with his babying ‘Feed me’ reprisals. Good thing I had the MP shoot him down and soon he was lovingly eaten by a group of totally hacked off inmates. You know how I am. Completing cycles and all.” Wernicke’s charm was as smooth and dripping, like the dexterity of IV lines, clearer and had that empowering sense of calm. Like his voice had mixed with some odd designs of scented candles. Jeremy appreciated thinly for his body was numbed and his own faculties were aching.

“You are lucky you are on my good side Jeremy.” Wernicke’s softness did not conceal his frustrations of the failures at Mount Massive and an annoyance geared at almost all personnel. The patience he wore now was a bit slimmer and in its narrow-eyed cul de sac wasn’t about to let anyone get away so easily. Jeremy thought this both as a compliment and a disaster. “Let’s say the ones who are too irritating had to be in a less grade housing arrangement. But Jeremy, for your information, Waylon Park has escaped with Miles Upshur.”

Hearing Waylon’s name made Jeremy sit up fast. The contraction of muscles hit him hard as though the Walrider did; muscle memory and all getting him to spit out blood and yelp a bit. Wernicke gave a small smile. Jeremy rasped, “Waylon made it out?”

“Most adequately yes.”  Wernicke’s face and smile brightened, “That boy is amazing. Truly, a creature of endurance and also something so _wholly_ different. I am so happy he played truant. I wouldn’t then have not been able to strap him so successfully into the Morphogenic engine.”

Jeremy almost said something, opened his mouth, then closed it, reassessed his words, got the feel of the intonation and polity of them in his tongue, whilst he launched the loaded: “Something tells me you are a bit unhappy that I partially postponed his exposure to the engine.”

That is when Wernicke smiled.

—    And slapped him hard against the face.

For an old bat he did know how to hit. And given the incapacitated state of Jeremy Blaire he could only sarcastically think one thing: _Well, that slap imitated the Morphogenic engine’s ethos to a T — exacerbate an already uniform pattern of insanity or in this case, make a pre-existing bruise have a smarting sort of approach._

“Now, that we got that out of the way…” Wernicke breathed heavily, his emaciated form did not hide the inflation and constrictions of his lungs, lungs ferociously breathing. A good set of lungs is a good thing to have after a certain age: helps if you are passionate. “You shouldn’t let attractions stop the good work. Not in that fashion. You know trigonometry?”

“Yeah.” Jeremy nodded in conformation.

“The beauty of trigonometry is that it allows spatial depth to what we see as the two dimensional geometry; it allows a malleability of angles and degrees from many directions. Think with the trigonometry of lust not with the populist trope of the geometry of marginal returns. Get that through your Ivy League Business School skull.” Wernicke talked about math as though she was to know the rites of seduction but ending with the rasping tones of an assault when he was indicated. This way of speaking was analogous to domestic violence. Jeremy realised the Wernicke manifested the Patriarch card pretty efficiently.

“Yes, Dad…” Jeremy intonated which earned him another smack — to a smaller degree.

“No one can call me that except Stockblitz. My _pure_ son.” Wernicke said.

“I did not procrastinate in executing Waylon’s punishment.” Jeremy offered his truths, his mentality, “In fact, I was so annoyed by Waylon, that in the heat of the moment I did dispense to him a worse punishment than execution. I made him a subject for the engine. I did so because I was disappointed. I thought Waylon would be timid. Yes, I knew he was a sympathetic fuck but I was hoping that any bravado he tried would be done later. Waylon acted on his moral impulses too immediately. Getting sloppy while doing it. But, I hated that he was apt in his convictions. Maybe, in my eye before, I saw a more passive man and I could not easily connect these two oppositional forces perpendicular to each other. The need to be calm but also so furiously assertive. But after I got hold of my own senses, my anger waning, I realised that I put Waylon in a shit position. So, I told doctors to sedate him. Hoping that when he does come through the Morphogenic engine’s initial non-lethal influences would scare him enough to keep quiet. But, Billy Hope being the brat he is ruined that plan. I _wanted_ Waylon to _come_ to _me_. I wanted him to _want_ me. But Waylon didn’t care….” Jeremy looked annoyed, “Why I don’t understand. I am a successful guy…” Wernicke looked at a rare moment, Jeremy Blair explicitly showing a fear, an anger on lust or admiration not requited, “I thought a person like Park would want me…”

“Yes.” Wernicke responded bittersweet, “I thought that _once_ too.”

Jeremy looked confusedly and Wernicke just smiled, “You know I had my affections rejected by a man with a more reserved nature than Park. Turing did not like me as much and I was jealous because he could love other people  with more tenderness. I wondered. Did my beauty think of me only as a former Nazi? But before I could confess more my love, my “crush” as you young ones say, died. Died killed himself. Maybe, you can show Waylon any of your winning qualities or redeeming ones?” Wernicke chuckled with no ill-feelings, “You see Waylon is a man who deserves whatever you have left of an idyllic humanity.” 

“I bought him coffee once.” Jeremy smiled, with a bright smirk, purely admirable, “You should have seen it. The cute way he drank the coffee.” Jeremy reminisced, his heart, or an organ figuratively close, pumped nice loose but comfortable excerpts of affection, “That tongue, that face, those cheeks. So aquiline, so masculine, yet so soft and so palpably aesthetical. Seeing him made me think of statues but also Galatea. I was amazed. I rarely had the feeling. I was smitten. It annoyed me because he was just a small-fry programmer. But it was so delicious. I felt I could hold his hand and squeeze it. Feel the density of his knuckles. I hardly get that feeling with anyone.”

“Waylon Park…” Wernicke looked contemplative, “Has wonderful hands; the kind that make people of trees and rainforests. That man has exquisite bone structure.”

Jeremy smiled. Such a rapport on male aesthetics with his boss. Kind of too casual — but fuck it. Waylon was the sort of hard on that needed to be appreciated. His boss understood that pretty much Waylon’s body scale was poetry in motion. Jeremy knew all the other guys who have had erections over Waylon Park (including the sexual sadomasochistic sleezeball Andrew Lanes) would think of him as a quickie or a freak-fuck. Jeremy did not think like that. Jeremy saw Waylon as someone who had _something_ ; it was partly definable as a moral compass and empathy but it was also this subtle will to try to do things. Various things.

Waylon was not a cog: but he could shift in and out of a cog-like mettle. This made Jeremy fascinated. Most people were boring. At least to him. Waylon had this thing that could only be surmised as dynamic and understanding of complex notions. Jeremy had not figured a math nerd to be like that. He had associated with many different types of programmer nerds. They were dextrous but pretty logocentric. They had statistics but they had pretty much limited desires and drives. As he saw them. Waylon’s freelance status made him appear, somewhat rightly so, sloppy and clumsy, a bit rough around the edges. But decoding him did not require the jargons of a mathematician. Waylon was rough probability: a man who played with many variables. This nature was something he liked. It showed. Jeremy observed that Waylon loved coffee mugs, coffee, tea but his tongue burned differently, even if the mistake was a repetition, and that he sometimes scribbled notes in a poetic hand (yes, he secretly read some, yup, he invaded the privacy of Waylon Park).

These little titbits showed character and characteristics that were somewhere between high culture and mass culture. Or at times at extremes. Jeremy loved the roles and regulations of a white collar participant. As an elite he enjoyed making laws and breaking them. Loved golfing and one night stands in high-end parties. He had come from privilege and was bred in privilege. And at times he did use his elitism in the bar rooms downtown and the so-called ghettos. There, mixing up stranglers and ruffians — as he positioned them — and getting cheap trashy dates (as he saw them) was kinda entertaining. Waylon was a bit of a rogue. But not really an intruder. Just someone who made sense in a totally different tandem. Personally, he could see Waylon as his meticulous person assistant/programmer helping him do things. Something about total white collar thing would not suit Waylon as he was too — uh, the words would be: atypically flexible, typically ethical — meaning he had none of the qualities to uphold that kind of tradition. Waylon had drive but he was not so aggressive and ruthless to know power as his bitch. While Jeremy know ambitiousness with industriousness Waylon knew how to have passion with a sense of amorphous innocence in places and the attachment of metaphysical threads.

Surprisingly, Jeremy was attracted to a person who should be the antitheses to all that he did and carried.

“It is okay to want him.” Wernicke and he had been thinking about these things; in their own heads, that was made clear by the sync of the matter, “We may be attracted to the bad boy but truthfully there is also a raw, and base something irresistible about ‘good’ as we encounter it.” Wernicke then added, “I think it has endurable, indefatigable qualities on it. They have this classical appeal but also at times have a rakish exuberance on them.” Then he added more, “Ironically, despite superficial tougher skin, Miles Upshur also possesses these qualities.”

Jeremy got annoyed at the mentioning of the guy’s name. “That bastard.”

“Well, get better Jeremy Blaire. We need to hunt down Waylon Park and Miles Upshur.”

Jeremy looked at his damages: “Can I fucking _punch_ Upshur a bit? Because I know torture and death is out of the question.”

“Surely.” Wernicke chuckled.

 

 

* * *

 

The car was comfortable enough to sleep in. Stole it from outside; the keys were inside so he wasn’t complaining.

There was no complaints. But he shivered. His eyes were hurting. The engine screamed in his head.

Without the right antibiotics he scourged up from the labs he would be dead. But he was upset that the person he thought it okay not to kill him once and for all was a man he had wanted to kill. Eddie Gluskin knew that Waylon Park was annoyed by him. Hated him a bit too. _Well, you were taking out his dick so…_

Eddie had saw that Waylon had left with the dark thing, now in a man, with a red jeep.

And he had made his mission to follow him. Eddie wasn’t sure if he wanted to kill him or punish him. Because Waylon helping him get impaled was helping him out of this lucid sort of hangover that was influenced by the machine. Whilst in that hangover state Eddie was able to reorganize his passions and remember so many things he wanted. Now, Waylon fucking ruined it. He was reminded that Waylon and all them sluts were men and that made him mad. ‘Cause that time ignorance was bliss. Waylon ruined his dream or rather…ruined him for him.

In anger he punched the car’s underbelly of carpet and plastic. All he wanted was a family. All he wanted was to fuck and breed and be a dad. Waylon made him feel as though he _couldn’t_ do those things. Eddie didn’t know exactly know why but unlike the other people Waylon had mouthed: “You just wanna make women to kill them…you sick fuck…you ain’t a dad you are just a poser…”

No one has ever really said that. Then Waylon had also mouthed: “You look for stupid things; you are the ugly one who has given up…you haven’t even kissed anyone properly have you!?”

It was while he was hoisting him up that filthy, bloodied, grime filled bizarre gymnasium (that now seriously looked like some perverted hangman game) that Waylon, before he felt the tightening of the ropes, screamed out those words.  

“Darling behave!” Eddie remembers screaming in absolute frustration as Waylon kicked and flung his body, to and fro, in the air, gnawing on his frustrations. Waylon was not passive, nor was he like him, filled with animosity. Waylon was determined. Unlike the scared patients and cocky administration Waylon was the odd one out.

But then of course, he had been impaled, coughed out his coppery fluids and touched Waylon’s hand. “We could have been beautiful.” A part of him meant it. But in that moment a sort of previously existing coherence pounding on his head. That Waylon, his darling, whose name he had seen in a file somewhere, was a _man_. But for some reason he didn’t mind as much. But he was a bit disgusted.

Men were not, well, _comfortable_. They were rivals. _Right_?

Eddie recollected his last therapist, a man coughing and looking condescendingly at him. The dirty blonde man had whispered to an older looking colleague: “That one is full of shit. Says he can listen to the Walrider. Fuck me, I bet he is lying. We can take him to the engine. He’s psycho enough for it. Bloody fuck also is a misandrist with the misogynistic tendencies.”

“Wouldn’t that make him _misanthropic_?” The colleague questioned dryly.

“Nah, misanthropy is more _philosophical_. This guy is a dumb backwater piece of shit. Won’t understand that”

What was front-water anyway? Eddie had, miserably, thought. To an extent he felt ashamed. Unlike these professionals he had neither education nor status. Eddie came from a small town. Average working class family. Eddie knew all the trades that required physical effort. And sewing things. Eddie knew that he had no financial talent for universities or colleges. Didn’t know if she should enrol in community college. Oh yes, that and well, his mother had told him to get married. Have a family. She had introduced him to a friend’s daughter. Eddie had fucked her. Not make love, _fucked_. The girl went home crying and his mother’s friend and his mother were in an awful fight. Eddie did not understand what had happened. Didn’t understand what he did wrong.

Because that is the same way his father and uncle had _done_ him.

After he reached seventeen his father had stopped. His uncle hadn’t. His uncle was pretty much into him. When Eddie refused to want to have sex his uncle well, he couldn’t say “no” and when he moaned out of pleasure his uncle called him a slut, a whore, and got harder on him. Making him bleed, bruise and silently have tears down his face.

Then Eddie left one day and never returned. Sent money to his mother. Got work in all the menial places. Eddie had no aspirations. Except marrying. Eddie didn’t know what else to want. As a child he played with a group. As a teenager he did pranks and vandalism with a gang but no real friends _ever_. When boys and young men his age made sexual jokes he laughed a bit even to inappropriate ones a bit nervously. The gay ones too though all these things made him feel like an outsider.

Eddie started to hate women. Because it was women who were usually “sluts and whores” right?  And because of them…well, they gave birth and did that mean they were horrible? Wonderful? Amazing? — He was terrified of their biological power. Terrified that they fucked and gave birth. Eddie sobbed as he was confused: he was fucked but why didn’t he get pregnant. What was _he_? Surely, wasn’t he a man?

Eddie had never really _kissed_ anyone.

It was him who was forcefully kissed, by his father and uncle.

Kissing was also done by his mother.

Kissing was well, he didn’t understand it.

He didn’t also understand sex. The violence in it.

That is when he thought sex needed a meaning.

Sex was for his children — yes, that was meaningful.

All this time Eddie never enjoyed sex. He also didn’t know what lovemaking really was. All he knew was charmer’s tricks and empty promises and words. When he did kiss it was not really something he knew. And it was seldom done.

Waylon screaming at him. Telling him he didn’t understand. What did he mean by kissing _proper_? What was that trick?

Waylon made him mad.

Waylon knew things he didn’t know.

But Waylon looked like a darling. Not really a slut. What was he?

Eddie touched his lips.

Should he ask him to teach him how to kiss proper?

 

* * *

 

_“They are following us?”_

It was warning. Blood felt warm in him and Miles got up to see Waylon deeply asleep; but fresh? Oh yes, the bath…

_Who is following?_

_“Those two. The ones that look alike.”_

_Fuck_ , Miles realised it.

_“They had noticed Waylon taking a bath. They are just outside.”_

Miles snarled and his Walrider made a hissing noise.

The air outside was cool and still. Rustling was being heard. Miles understood. “We can’t leave Waylon alone…”

_“You want me to attack them?”_

“Better surprise them…with —“

Miles was unable to finish as he heard a soft knock on his door.

Miles’s Walrider aura grew bright. He approached the door and saw them look at him. The Walrider’s energy surprised them. They understood that Miles would attack and could harm them.

“We don’t mean to intrude but it is quite awful outside. A bit too cold. We only wish to stay for a while. Miles Upshur, you have done incredible things. Let us join you. We can come to some use.”

“Yes, uses.”

“So many.”

The Twins, first spoke the one with hair then the other, looked pretty happy seeing Miles.

_“Should we trust them?”_

_I don’t want to fight so much_ , Miles let them in but pointed to a corner.

The Twins looked at Waylon but did not show any vitriolic feelings towards the sleeping man and sat in their appointed place.

After a while, they snored softly and Miles and his Walrider grew a bit more stable.

Miles also had another realisation.

His Walrider pretty much listened to him and discussed things with him.

That was a very good sign.

 _“If they cause trouble I will rid them of their tongues and liver.”_ Walrider laughed quietly and Miles had to smile.

“Look, Waylon may not be comfortable with this, rightly so.” Miles told his shadowy ally, “I invited them in…” Then he continued in thought …because I want to keep a close eye on them…

 _“Good call…strong body…smart body…clever body…”_ Miles’s Walrider gave him a tight hug. Miles felt a jolt. In his head, heart and spine. It was kinda painful but pretty electric.

 _Ok, easy boy_ …Miles coughed because the intensity of this was not expected.

_“Oh…I am your boy now…mhmmm….so nice…”_

The sultry way that was said made Miles feel slightly uncomfortable. But now was a good time to see what he could manage, I am gonna lie down and take a nap  again, you monitor them

 _“As you wish….”_ Walrider stood in front of The Twins, _“I am your regular Princess Bride huh…”_

Miles laughed quietly too.

Seeing Waylon asleep was soothing.

Closing his eyes he hoped Waylon did not wake up before him.

The Twins would be kind of scary to wake up to.

 

 

* * *

 

Eddie did not go in. Nor did he do havoc. Inside the car he saw the red jeep and just decided to wait.

He was nervous. But to be honest he wanted a good enough plan.

Parts of him were also jealous.

Who was that man that Waylon was with?

Eddie did not know what he wanted.

Should he just go in and take Waylon and flee?

This was a pretty fucked up situation…

And something had to be done about it!

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE 2nd: Alan Turing was said to have killed himself. I forgot this and wrote an error. Sorry guys. Also in real life there is no Wernicke-Alan correspondence as Alan Turing is a real person and had helped win WWII so there is no way he would mix with a ex-Nazi like Wernicke. 
> 
> UPDATE: I must say something truthfully. Though I was inspired by Relina-Ru's drawings I myself am a POC. I don't live in States and so I was not aware that Park is a common Korean name. Also even before seeing Relina-Ru drawings of them I pictured Miles as a back brushed darker haired brunette. Some people saw him raven haired I did not. And I always saw Waylon as lighter brunette guy with silver eyes. People interpreted Lisa Park Asian too and I was thinking Waylon married an Asian person cool. I seriously did not know that Park is such a common Korean name. Yes I listen to K-pop and heard of Park Shin Hye but I do not know much about Korean names. This is my lack of knowledge. Yes, I was stupid. I liked Relina-Ru's interpretation of Waylon because he is slender, muscular has a cool face. And Outlast had many White characters. Most people drew Waylon as a white person and at times even his hands looked to me Caucasian but yes I saw anime type versions of him too but lesser. So, I am sorry for my ignorance. I hope I did not offend anyone. I have decided to make Waylon in this fiction a half Korean, half Welsh ancestry. Infact, I already thought of Lisa as half-Irish and half-Taiwanese or Japanese. I hope people will understand that I was just not knowledgeable enough before. I though Park was a normal American-European name as Parks. 
> 
> I must say that I was really inspired by Relina-Ru's drawings of Outlast. And before she did the Waylon/Blaire thing I really didn't see potential in it. Well, Relina-Ru's way of representing the characters is partly how I am looking at them. Yeah, I also made Jeremy a bit more likeable. Eddie has our sympathy and all 'cause he is fiction: real life serial killers are not forgivable or stuff =/ Me and my pal talked a bit on Eddie's psychology so that was in this fic. As this fic has multiple pairings you can say I pretty much am giving both Miles and Eddie equal chances to be well with Waylon. Kinda nice to see who Waylon will pick :D maybe Miles, I really love Eddie/Waylon but I also love Miles/Waylon someone should write more Miles/Waylon. But yeah let's see how Waylon chooses :) Both Eddie and Miles have some downers. Well Miles is still a stranger and Eddie making a bad impression will be an understatement O_O so it will be fun to see how they interact with Waylon and how Waylon interacts with them. Oh yeah don't worry some stuff will happen with Jeremy and Waylon too. And there will be OCs. Maybe some Daryl/Miles/Waylon sort of things XD Speaking of Daryl and Slicestorm coming back in chapter 3 and you will meet XY9 and XY3 :) And of course next chapter will have some story developments too. Waylon is gonna be a bit unhappy with anonymity as he is pretty much normal exposure guy. Miles will be a bit more okay as loner type. But his Walrider is still not stable? A berserk Walrider anyone? Or, a Walrider that also unknowingly hurts Miles? Ideas, ideas, ideas :)


	3. Way-links

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Waylon finds himself more confused about who and what he is and the Walrider rides on the friendly-train to make his new BFF

 

 

Waylon almost screamed awake. His breath hoarse; rapidly moving chest and the sensation of a throat gone wild but dry. It wasn’t a nightmare. Or, was it? He was running through the hallways. The dreary, dark, stinking hallways that reminded him of doom. The bloodthirsty walls, the cannibalistic tremor of itself, it was like an anatomical mutation of endocytosis — an implosion, an eaten of oneself. A self that could only be some disgusting ouroboros.

Yes, it was Mount Massive Asylum. One of Murkoff’s bitches that aided in the genetic and psychological betrayal of humanity. Or more specifically mankind in its last hours as the slow rape of the locks were clearly no maiden fair. Then there was figure; bellowing and larger than most things. Oh yes, Chris Walker — wasn’t that the name of this person?

Yet Chris’s stomach imploded as his intestines cracked and throbbed, and become multiple sharp tentacles and appendages. His already caustic grin gnawed deeper into the flesh and became sharper daggers of teeth. And then, obviously, Waylon was chased. Waylon moved slow as he saw that — yup, his leg was now sporting dangling veins — a more deeper abomination of a wound than he had still painfully carried.

And then Chris was stopped. By the dark spilling octopus or Megaladon like brute: the Walrider. Well, even though smaller and anthropomorphic in nature the instinctual level matched the terrors of the deep.

Something felt wrong.

Waylon did not feel relieved.

Rather he felt more scared as the Walrider grabbed him and as he struggled he felt something primeval, evil, but not exactly directly directed against him…it was like a loss of understanding…Then the Walrider morphed into Miles, with the dark, cloudy eyes. A static of storm, a forever gloom in his cranial ionosphere. And a smile, one third sadistic, part hungry but full glee. And Miles licks his face and mutters in the raspy, metallic voice of something preternatural and losing control: _“Only should be you and me.”_

The dream was scary and he realises that Miles is pretty much in a fuck of a situation. Yes, he knew that before. One does not escape Mount Massive Asylum with a Walrider in between the bones and marrow of his ally without knowing that. But, he is admiring Miles Upshur. The way he is housing the Walrider. Without any violent incident. Sure a mathematician should trust statistical facts and the experience of variables. _But they all are some sluts now aren’t they?_

Waylon laughed softly. He was mouthing like the bitchy way Eddie Gluskin talked when he talked. What he meant was that though he knew nothing about Walrider mechanics he could see that this one case was enough for a cursory summary: the Walrider fucks ups easily when angry at a bearing of 360° (yeah, that should be a bit imaginary and almost wrong calculations as bearing as pieces of the pie not the pie itself generally) and the Walrider’s host does determine some of the Walrider’s actions. The Walrider usually is angry and violent because it is born and borne by negative or really overwhelming impulses.

 _Miles must truly be, to many extents, a well-grounded individua_ l. Waylon admitted to himself admiring again. _But I cannot help Miles if he has no incentive to help himself._

Waylon took the entropy, lesser than zero values, that was not even an (-9) value. The entropy was this: his knowledge on the matters presented were limited as a carcass already excavated for even the healthy colour and calcium of its bones. He did not know how to help Miles Upshur rather than give some emotional and psychological support. Any other trauma faced even within the peripheries of the psychological and emotional cannot fully be registered by him.

Frankly, he wasn’t sure what Miles even _thought_ or _knew_ about his new condition. And Waylon’s earlier indiscretions experienced at the bath also scared him. Waylon would not easily abandon Miles but he didn’t know how to help. Yes, he handled the programming schematics of the Morphogenic engine and abled the MRI to lock into bodies but it was all. The visuo-spatial translations were done via the psychologists and other programmers. Now, he was only exposed to the nascent stages of that procedure. The details of this phantasm, this blood-bound poltergeist with some mechanism of zeitgeist philosophy into it with gestalt monitoring was all superficially understood by him.

 _I don’t know what the Walrider was made for_ , Waylon mused, _Was it just a fascination with the moral and ethical pollution of man and use the dugout fossils of that world as a fuel?  Was there any median or antithesis…any control to this project?_

The word “control” hit Waylon on the spot. _Control…most experiments have a “control” as a way to bifurcate or even add or lower pressures…what is the “control” for the Walrider. Is there any?_

Waylon had been lying down all this time. The feel of the clean, smooth bed was too much to escape from and the steady breathing of Miles next to him was also a reassurance of many safeties. Miles breathing like a beautiful twirl in a time assured and assuaged Waylon of his humanity. Both of theirs to be specific and truthful.

Waylon did not wish to hurt or kill Miles.  There was almost a weeping when he thought what if it ever boiled down to it. Outside, there was no light. It was around close to 4am. The mountain air a bit warmer now but still cool with a crispy freshness. Musk of all things in good order, good chaos, and rich in balance; teeming with a cerebral functioning that counted close the crescendo of heartbeats — Nature was quixotic and beautiful; her darkness was not a matter of pollution. It was just a change in scales of skin, another plumage. Nothing diseased nor cancerous.

Nothing so surreptitiously fucked up as a Walrider in the biodiversity here. You couldn’t count daemons and spirits even if you counted them on some imaginary or beliefs list because they were not mucking up the ambient creaks and caresses of night or of one Waylon Park and Miles Upshur.

That is when Waylon felt the other noise, circling with the white noise of the large ceiling fan. It was _other_ snores that next to him. Waylon got up with a thudding lightning reflex. Just jolted and saw two large people in the corner of the room.

Waylon didn’t scream.

Whatever he learned from his ordeal is that screaming is not a good way to strike a _counterattack_.

But then he saw the radius of a silhouette-radiation, The Walrider… It had been swirling around and saw him awake and went up to him, _“Miles invited The Twins over. They had followed us after the suicide of Father Martin. Miles does not really trust them but he and you are in no condition at the moment to turn down some strong thugs saying they will help out any way possible.”_ The Walrider then smiled sweetly, if its skeletal face could manage something like a grin of comfort, which bounced oppositely Waylon’s blank face of consternation. _“Do not worry Waylon. I have told Miles…pretty Miles….healthy Miles….yummy Miles…good body Miles…that The Twins I will kill…if they annoy…”_

Waylon looked a bit incredulously at the Walrider. “Just don’t suck my dick again.” Waylon breathed out

 _“That, I apologize, I cannot really say ‘no’ to that as of now_.”  Walrider looked earnestly at his annoyance, _“You are a very interesting human. You okay? You look sad.”_

I cannot believe… Waylon wanted to burst out laughing, this phantom is asking him his feelings? “Don’t hurt Miles.” It came out from his mouth, before he could stop it, “Don’t turn him to a rampaging lunatic like Billy, please.” That trace of etiquette lingered in his tongue and throat. His chemical signature. No rudeness here. Always tongue washing cheek better than a soap could suffice. It angers him now that a politeness was extended so organically to this Other or whatever theoretically or factually it was, I don’t want him to think I am weak.

 _“Humans so complicated. Billy use me more. I do not always kill for pleasure. Pleasure is also felt…Billy helped me feel…”_ Walrider actually looked offended and Waylon’s empathy kicked in: despite the ghoulish genes of machine-puppetry the sadness in his voice was prominent.

 _I even assigned him a notable gender_ , Waylon softly laughed, _Should I name him next?_ But then looked that the Walrider went a bit back. “Oh, I am not mocking you I am just…I am sorry…I do not want…I do not know what you are…and I don’t want Miles to get hurt…and I just don’t know…I am sorry…”

The Walrider instantly looked happy and came closer once more. _“ You so nice Waylon.”_

“But you did try to kill me.” Waylon remembered his first crash course lesson in Walrider introductions. At that moment the fear harangued him more obscenely as the “doctor team” (the group of inmates who advised him to take it out on the doc’s dead body as a form of therapy) picked apart a man. Unfortunately, Waylon was also facing disorientation. Running for his life cleared some of it up. Between all those disordered plastic and clean room laboratory modules was a stain that would clean you out before you filed it away as a case. A failed experiment. And that stain had been the Walrider. Made Kleenex jokes sound more horrifying than ever.

 _“Sorry, Waylon…”_ Walrider offered its earnest apology, _“I did not mean for your demise. I have no discrimination against you. My purpose then, aligned with Billy’s, was to kill anyone. I have killed few healthy people without much qualms. Truthfully, I think I was, Billy was too, afraid of you…”_

Waylon made a sharp turn. Looked with a gaze that bombarded chagrin and unbelievable shock. “I do not know how you can be so afraid of a nerdy keyboard pusher as me…” Was the Walrider now also taking to rude jokes? That wasn’t funny.

“ _Well, I do not wish to be rude, but…”_ Walrider came closer, _“Waylon, you can talk to me.”_

“Why yes.” Waylon raised a brow.

_“Have it ever crossed your mind that you are one of the few people who can do that?”_

The Schrodinger’s cat was out of the bag. Waylon was shocked, “What?”

_“Yes, Waylon. You talking to me is not the norm. It is not completely possible with anyone. Most people cannot hook up to me. Neither can many talk to me. Wernicke, the man who helped built the Morphogenic engine, cannot…speak…his words…to me…also become static…you speak clearer to me…at times more so than Miles.”_

What else will be revelation? This is pretty problematic; oh shit, this was kinda fucked up, alright…Waylon had not ever understood why he was able to speak clearly, _so_ clearly, to the Walrider. After leaving Mount Massive hours ago he had presumed that it was because of Miles becoming the host that made it possible. Miles had obviously done no damage with the Walrider…as in did not cause mayhem yet as done in Mount Massive (well the Walrider did have help, the insane inmates). But, now, the matter pressed…

“Uhmm, you talked about fear?”

The Walrider looked at Waylon, _“Yes, fear. You are very different.”_

“How so?”

 _“You may also be a little psychologically disturbed. Most modern man nurses a psychosis. But you have a faint, nice bioluminescence stuck to your aura like fireflies…a firefly…pretty butterfly…glowing, growing…I tried to touch you a bit harshly back there…in the place…and it almost hurt me…hurt me…and chased me away…” The_ Walrider’s language, with its shifting pricks and levers of childish and cool scientific jargon like awareness, struck Waylon, not with fear, but with fascination. It was like seeing the Walrider in a recognizable light: as an artificial intelligence. A programming. This did not mean he could _contro_ l the format of the coding. It just made an awful more _sense_ to him. To him codes were poetic and poetry was pretty poignant. Phantasm-manifestations of the Walrider were more like black-holes to him: except it bended psychologies and flesh into something monstrous, not light, or rather light both chemical-wavelengths in a figurative membrane. Black holes looked like darkness in space; Waylon wondered as it nullified and fed off, as in denatured light, would it smoke red-hot as the sun in their atmosphere? The Walrider seemed like that. Its cloak a fine black panther’s sprawl but it had more contrasted lines of bone accents on its body that made it move almost like water or muscle ripple. Not necessarily the way the shadows move.

Waylon surveyed the information; touched it palpably in his cortex. Grey matter alive and white matter assisting in keeping calm.  _Fear and me equals Walrider getting nervous_. _Not the math I thought I would plot in a function graph_.  Then Waylon remembered the note he scribbled to understand an inmate playing basketball with another’s head. That was the reification, in short verse, of whatever happened in Mount Massive. Of people disjointing the brain, human brain, from empathy and feeling and treat it as a dish of scientific zombie leftovers. _I am not a Luddite; but I am not technocrat either_ , Waylon roughly sighed, _I am not gonna marvel at the expanse of science and relegate the need for human interactions and values. That’s not me._

Waylon though suddenly about his dad and mom. It was funny, he hadn’t thought of his father in a while. Waylon was around twenty-four when he died. And Lisa had already given birth to the sons. By then he was already a father himself. Waylon had married early. He was round twenty or twenty-one when he did. He was in love and thought it was great to marry his classmate Lisa Hanlon. Lisa was a quarter Irish, quarter Taiwanese and Japanese as her father was Irish and mom Taiwanese-Japanese. Hyuan Jason Hanlon-Park and Chioh Oscar Hanlon-Park respectively were like a year apart from each other. After that they just did stuffs that families did. Well, frankly, he and Lisa were becoming farther apart. Lisa did a PhD: Waylon was doing part-time Masters in Mathematics and Programming by the time she was mid-way finished. It wasn’t really the pressures of being a father. Waylon was a bit more disoriented than Lisa about things he studied and worked at. Unlike Lisa, who was methodical and had high bouts of professionalism, Waylon was more like a bohemian meeting a library geek crossways in some odd psychological crosshairs.

Waylon thought of his father, a Korean-American man, and of also his Welsh ancestry that came from his maternal grandfather. _I don’t think genetic-hybridity has much to do with Walrider fears but I will keep some of these things in mind just in case…_

Thinking of Lisa made him unhappy. Whatever Lisa is going through now and his poor boys was because of him. And he regretted his actions. Not the exposure. No. That was a moral dilemma that had to be solved with the accurate: yes, these bastards need some royal whipping. But…he didn’t want Lisa to be feeling abandoned. Nor his dear children. The word “children” automatically brought the unpleasant memory of Eddie Gluskin: Bear this, bear that, warm seed for children, sake of children…Yup, that guy can really talk a lot about _nonexistent_ children. Personally, the idea of him, as he is now, being a father was _nauseas_. Because he would be have this coddling mentality that made him more of a burden to how own kids.

Thinking of his wife and children also reminded him of Blaire. That bastard Jeremy Blaire who was said he “personally” wanted to take care of the matter with Waylon and concerning Lisa Hanlon Park. What was Blaire’s problem? Not only did he personally see to his incarceration but he also wanted Lisa to suffer all these odds. _Is he a possessive fuck, what sort of sadist was he anyways?_ Waylon felt a feral anger to gut-punch Jeremy Blaire.

 _“What are you thinking about?”_ The Walrider, with all gentleness it could muster, put its clawed hand on Waylon’s shoulder, _“I did not mean to make you upset Waylon.”_

“No, No…I…” instinctively Waylon put his own hand on the Walrider’s and there was a slight tinge-singe between them but then he felt a cool radiating sort of hum, as though the sun’s heat was blowing on windmills. “I am just thinking about my family.”

“Are they nice?” The Walrider asked curiously. The skeletal face tilted and the voice cooed a child’s way of inquisition; that can be described as a wandering between rhetoric and true precocity.

“I wouldn’t be thinking about them if they weren’t would I?” Waylon smiled and laughed softly.

 _“Not really.”_   Walrider said in a factual tone that made Waylon look pretty stunned, allowing him to continue, _“Humans are strange you know. Billy’s mother and he had always been at, the term is, loggerheads. They share an abusive history. Throughout his childhood life his mother ‘beat the crap outta him’ so to quote him in verbatim. She so awful….awful…”_ The eyes of the Walrider glowed and his aura manifested brighter and Waylon realised this was not a topic that should be worth perusal but before he could say something the Walrider calmed and continued, _“But Billy yearned for her; she died via a cardiac arrest. Billy’s church, or rather his mom’s, told him so. Well, it was rather they informed and Billy via me got to know. No one was kind enough to tell Billy what he needed to know. May have been only twenty-three but Billy was no stupid at least not totally. After a while using me he accessed both computer and physical files and letters. It was when he found out that Billy finally truly had a lateral ascension. Well, it was not immediate, but it was within a 13 hour framework. I was still a lively blob of cells or rather a form of aether but after that well now you see me.”_

Walrider laughed quietly its laugh of metallic sobriety, not insane, coherent, dangerous yet playful, then seriously it came to the mean of the discussion, _“Sorry, digressing, but Billy also abused his mother when he got older. The church had to intervene. Billy’s mom was a reborn person. I do not understand birth or rebirth. To me people should not pupate so much or maybe I am just unaccustomed to such things. I do not know how people moult as my moulting is more, umm, graphic, is that a good word? Anyways, Billy was cleaning up his act. I know Billy was a bit of a sexual deviant and delinquent in his town who stole, broke property and also harassed people. He was also a notable abuser of the greengrocer of his town; apparently, he beat that man up twice and both times he visited the hospital. Anyways, even such a bad history, I think to Billy his mom made sense. She was an indelible routine, a pattern he understood. I mean, no one else put up with him as much as she or so he thought. Billy really cared about his mom. They just were pretty fucked up.” _

Waylon found it hard not to laugh a bit more loudly. Having such a focused and philosophical conversation with a nanomachines’ powered phantom was right out some science fiction novel but he was pleased that the conversation was good, easy, something the tongue enjoyed to move around. That there was a conversation. A good rapport; him being able to talk to Walrider and Walrider him. The room’s pleasant coolness with this conversation (all he needed was tea) made him feel alive. Rejuvenated. After the sleep and the dream that no longer proved to be an incubus. The Walrider’s carefulness and caring actual made him seem at comfort. Their companionable synchronisation made him still a bit uneasy as he _should_ be a _potential_ host. But the Walrider had not…

 _“I could have tried entering your consciousness and your body but I **cannot** actually…”_ The Walrider was in sync, _“It makes me annoyed but not irate enough to hurt you rather I am more than eager to explore this possibility with you, side by side, or sideways, this is another type of ascension…I do not know but I feel it in the cluster of synthetic-synapses I carry…I am sure this is something new and beautiful. Waylon, you are so cool. Cooler than me. I envy you.”_

Waylon momentarily felt amazed at the compliment of their complimentary yet discrete, independent existences. Then immediately followed, “You can’t enter me, did you try? I mean when I was sleeping?”

 _“I did a bit…”_ Waylon’s irritation made him then say, _“Sue me, I was just testing the fences.”_

“Fences?”

_“The bioluminescence. I was just born then. But your bioluminescence is not just born now. And it wasn’t Billy’s and mine’s imaginations. You have an aura that I can’t really bypass. Waylon Park, I think you psychologically, physiologically and genetically have an immunity towards me.”_

“Is that even possible?” Waylon was too flabbergasted. All these hours he is getting a Jetstream of new information. All these flotillas of microcosms of himself that he was never even aware of. And all of this bound also to the Walrider.

 _“I am not so skilled in knowing my own self but it seems so.”_ Walrider actually shrugged its skeletal shoulders.

“Do you think this is a challenge?” Waylon cautiously eyed him. There was silence that filled in more. Became convex and concave with the human breathing of Waylon and the rippling, inky muscular anatomical vibrations of the Walrider. The Walrider’s anatomy was anthropomorphic but it may not have lungs or rather a collective set of lungs or it did but was mostly assisted by other things. Waylon had earlier imagined it to be similar to earthworm “hearts” for the piston like generations on its outlines was akin to it. Yet the tension was really nuclear. This was a truth or dare, a catch-22 and was pre-cementing of sorts. If Waylon, though sceptic, trusted on the honesty of the Walrider then it would certainly say what it wants.

 _“No. Not truly. It is a bit but not so much because I like Miles and I like you. I can be different with both of you. I was not initially programmed to be a probability index in human interactions. Yet I bounded so entirely differently with Miles and my bond with him has not brought his body too much damage. But Billy’s was starting to rot. I mean all those life-supports and stuff.  But it does bother me. I am a creature made to look for good hosts to be symbiotic with. You are a more perfect host at times than Miles. Not that Miles is any less perfect…”_ The shadow smirked here, it was coquettish, it showed no animosity and its steel voice was nice and easy like a knife on butter, the silence of tension was skilfully eradicated into pieces to mix with this strange, gothic potpourri of conversations, _“But, your aura is so unmanageable. At least I wanna know why…And if we can ever link up. If we do I have all the interests to ask for consent.”_

Waylon sighed with relief and a strange feeling went down that he realised was bile with fits of adrenalized anger. Waylon at times wanted to wash his hands, bones, skin and limbs off this Walrider. If it wasn’t for this project he wouldn’t have gotten fucked in psycho-ville and wouldn’t have to be separated from his family. At the same time, Waylon could not help but appreciate the Walrider’s sympathy, care and honesty. This was not so contradictory. It just felt that he was thrust into a greatness that he was not even large enough to contain. Waylon was a “small-fry” was he not? All his life he had felt the slaps of mediocrity. Only his love was a great one which he was thankful to God to for his family also made him enormously happy.

Yet, Waylon was not a person who had such high ambitions: at least not consistently so because all his life he was the marginal. Waylon did not think of himself as a prime number or a set of Fibonacci dialects that also voluminous armoured the philosophy of the golden ratio. Waylon thought to himself as a 2+2=4 kind of being: a simple truth which generated even numbers. A classic case of existence; in his own set theorem of reaches because 2+2=4 has a lot of mathematical interstices even with some differential properties but that was the thing. It is amazing but also pretty subtle. The numbers “2” and “4” were the basic consecutives so it made him of linear lifestyles and all the adjunct things associated with that. And the counter 2-2=0 was also a basic truth. There was nothing to really entropy as zero or cipher was the origin and also a chemical balance that is everyman’s negation or starting point of things. It was classic, simple, compact. Like a haiku. These variables brought forth a dizzying subject-objectivity to reality that terraformed his planet’s mathematical notations.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I am not discouraging anyone's reading. My chapter ideas are a bit too large. I am sorry I wanted Daryl in this chapter but I reached 4k and I realised this may be torture to some of my readers. Please tell me what you think. I want to know as this is really WIP. Thank you for the kudos I am so honoured. I really am. Also, I am not a maths buff or mathematician. If I say stupid things please forgive me. I hope you guys are enjoying the read so far :D thanks for reading and investing your valuable time


	4. Static, Statistics and Starts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a very graphic chapter. Has a lot of disturbing material. Rape and all of that. Also Daryl does weird shit. SO BE FOREWARNED. Also, I hope this chapter begins something too for two people ;) Thanks for all the kudos!

 

** Static, Statistics and Starts **

 

Daryl didn’t like keeping stupid prisoners.

Well, he liked ones that yelled or screamed or maybe did nothing. But to him there has to be _actual_ sign of _intelligence_. Well, to him _intelligence_ was talking, not really begging yet was something akin to knowing that the abused was human and the abuser was close enough to it.

So yeah, it would be an understatement to say that he did not consider Andrew as an intelligent lifeform. Andre screamed, shouted and cried and to be honest, begged and all of that. At times he cursed more filthily than sewer trash.

And he seemed to like pain a bit. In that direction. Which got boring. Well his Walrider was a bit aroused by it. So, silver lining, huh?

Didn't know what else to say about that. At the moment it was perfectly clear that his toy bored him. Daryl made a bit of a verdict, possibly an ultimatum: that Andrew was not _human_ to him after all. Well, he was starting to become maggot and well human something mix. And that was easy for him to do as Daryl made these sort of categorizations every day. From the mailman to the restauranteur who sometimes mispronounced larger words to sound more authentically French (though it was obvious to Daryl he was not). So, to him they were trash too. To him humanity was nicely categorised by the homeless man he saw everyday near his common house. By “common house” he meant near one of his apartments as he had many. Well, it was salient for him to possess many because he was one of the best agents of the Walrider project. Firstly, it was pretty damn apparent because he fucking owned one Walrider. An agent of Murkoff or rather its actual council of people; the oligarchic round-table treated its “successes” with many presents.

Andrew was still alive. And not really limbless. Well he did look like some ragdoll that went through crap. But Daryl could report he was alive. Well, he was missing a finger or two here and there. And well the slashes were deep. But he was still alive right? That’s how Daryl’s mind worked. And it was pretty steadfast on that line of thinking.

Daryl had licked some of Andrew’s blood. Tsk-tsked the quality of it, which to him tasted awful, slapped him hard for the bad blood between them now (that’s how he termed it so far). Andrew was thirsty and so Daryl gave him some water. Not so much actually. And had starved him for a long time.

“Tell me.” Daryl asked as he petted his Walrider, who looked frustrated, angry, it did not look so happy, as if staying without any action meaning damning other creatures with death made it feel bored and unhappy, “Why did you even like Waylon Park?”

“Wh…What…?” Andrew looked limply at his direction. There was fleeting moments of feeling unconscious; this was cured by Slicestorm stabbing him at times in various places of the body. Lightly enough to not be fatal, painful enough for him to cry.

Slicestorm howled a bit angrily.

“Okay, Okay…” Daryl looked at him with a reprimanding eye, “You can go out and kill some people just don’t let it be too bloody…”

Slicestorm was happy and left out an open window.

They were at a basement alright. The dank, the smell of things rusting, musty and moulding as though all this place knows is decay.

“You fucking too quiet.” Daryl went and punched Andrew, not too hard, “I fucking asked you why you like Waylon Park?”

“I don’t understand…I seriously don’t…” Andrew coughed, “You mean why I was attracted to him?”

“Yeah.” Daryl measured his patience. Pulled Andrew’s head a bit, “Was it only his Korean-Welsh American hybrid good looks…or, was it something a bit deeper? Because I cannot understand how a fucking pile of shit as you can fetishize a man like Waylon Park.”

That came out almost as a yell and Andrew started crying a bit, between sobs he pleaded: “Please, I…am too…tired…I like how he looked…” then struggling, “I did not know he had Welsh or Korean ancestry…”

Daryl looked so annoyed.

Andrew swallowed really hard. Frightening was an understatement to the looks Daryl was giving, “I mean I saw some Asiatic lines on his face. There was a slant of the eyes and the nose: I just thought him very pretty…”

“Look Waylon Park is interesting…after reading some of your observations I truly hit on it…” Daryl said plainly, “I mean you were pretty detailed about the curvature of his abs, chest, ass-cheeks and the nice pecs on his abdomen. But you did say who elegantly wrote stuff even when research was over and later you saw them as math scrap…didn’t that sound so pretty and poignant too…and that attempt at a haiku you mentioned. ‘with sordid tongues askew/by the  blade of dawn and dew/ give the  patients their dues?’  Of course, that was just sympathetic and also made Jeremy Blaire to look out on it. But you pretty much copied it to make fun of it. That wasn’t nice.” Daryl slapped Andrew hard this time, the sound vibrated in his skull and the basement, “I think there was another poem attempt but that was in iambic pentameter: ‘those bade me hefty for this job/tis special for sleeps been rob…’

“I mean you got a nice penmanship there. And there was some cute observations too like ‘I sometimes think the guards check out each other. They look isolated and unhappy. Yesterday, Bill pretty much propositioned me. I mean I got it because we were talking about our wives. And he stressed the lonely feelings without them. Touching my hand. Appreciating my style of appreciating my wife. Saying we can talk more on wife-styles and styles of something that made them keepers. I pretty much saw him look a bit zoned out as he invited me to his room. I had to politely decline. Truthfully, I did have some calculations to see through sandbox mode. And truthfully, I got pretty much freaked out. I think Bill knew because we tacitly avoided each other a bit after that. I think for wrong reasons. I heard clippings of a conversation that said, ‘Bill totally got shot down by that fine piece of ass’ and the complimentary dialogue by the next person ‘Didn’t stop him jerking off hard to Park though’ and I am thinking what the fuck was all of that. I am not really into extramarital affairs of any orientation kind. I am just so nervous. I didn’t know I was ‘fine piece of ass’ either and it kinda made a bit uncomfortable. Been so honed and worn of being a geek that being a sex appeal guy is new to me.’ Yeah you photographed that note and scrapbooked it. I think for different reasons. It made you hard probably thinking how Waylon was such a sex magnet. I loved the penmanship. It seemed to have a breed of personality that isn’t totally reared by good academia. At least for me. I see many Ivy League assholes and not many feel and write like Waylon.”

Andrew looked dumbfounded. Because Daryl had guessed right. It was horniness that made him catalogue those. Frankly, he actually really didn’t read much of the things he photographed while meddling into Waylon’s affairs. Wait, did he just say Blaire?

“Blaire…?”

Daryl cocked his head and smiled, “Yeah Blaire as in Jeremy Blaire. You know your boss or one of them. Let’s see he sometimes looked through your notes as you were helping him keep tabs on Waylon Park. Blaire did like-hate Waylon also, but I gotta say I liked Blaire’s approach.”

Andrew knew Blaire was interested but _shifting_ through _his_ personal records interested?

“Well, lights out!” Daryl suddenly punched him and Andrew felt oblivious and slumped down.

There was a call again.

Daryl took out his phone: “Don’t worry he is still alive.”

“Good, do not over-indulge yourself Daryl.” The German accented appropriated, “In some hours you will have to deliver Dr. Lanes to me. I cannot punish him too badly. Need him psychologically coherent for all the work at hand. And if you have your way I am afraid he might become too traumatised. By the way how is Slicestorm?”

“Annoyed, you know how he is. Wants action and all.” Daryl talked this as the weather, as old news, as chitter-chatter but Wernicke got a bit irritated.

“You do not let him do whatever he wants; that petulant Walrider is too ecstatic in chaos…” Wernicke sounded pretty frustrated himself, “The only modifications he has shown is his great malleability of appendages to objects such as scissors and scythes.” Wernicke seemed to be have just repeating information to himself to see if he was contested in any way, “That creature is too rabid.”

“But Dad, he works well with rabid.” Daryl smiled, “What else could you want? Slice has drive and a passion to be a great killer.”

“I am not here to only manufacture a killer. I want to see the extent of such a project. Killers are all good and fine but I need to fine-tune the static.” Wernicke explained his own desires with such a lucid and well-touched tongue that made Daryl lose his smile and sigh.

“Dad, Walriders are good killers. You breed them mostly from fucked up people. Psychotic rejects. And you expect really extraordinary results but to what I don’t know. If you want you can just clear up static by well making the equations correspond different or just imputing more sedatives to the host. I mean the host doesn’t always really matter right?”

“Your vision is limited Stockblitz.”

The last name claimed a distance, a disappointment. Daryl cringed: “No Dad, I am just thinking normal…” then with a burst of anger, “Why do you have a fuck up a good father-son moment like that! HUH! Is it too hard to –“

“Shut up Daryl…your views were limited. Your Walrider is too limited too. Expand your horizons.” The stresses were unforgiving ultimatums. They instructed Daryl to perform.

“But you said it yourself!” Daryl was losing his cool, he began to panic — he didn’t want to lose the privilege of affection, “Slice can pretty much materialize pretty good weaponry as in blades and stuff!”

“Keep your tone down and ponder on what else your Walrider should be doing.” Wernicke admonished, his accent trembled with an annoyance which screamed intellectual brain-drain of sorts, “Your Slicestorm acts a bit too well, you know, as though he is suffering from a mental condition himself. There is a lack of finesse in intelligence. Maybe, you should focus on traits he should be adopting. Your Walrider is a healthy enough one of the same size as XY6 and I am always telling you to bug test him.”

Then, without warning the phone line was cut, making Daryl’s eye grow wide. Daryl screamed and kicked at boxes, crates, Andrew’s unconscious body — and Slicestorm, who had innocu7ously walked in on Daryl having burning tantrums. Their symbiosis made it possible for Slicestorm to feel pain and actually feel the brunt of Daryl hitting him _physically_. Mentally it was an easy exercise too. Slicestorm looked confused and whimpered like a dog. Slicestorm cooed and tried to appease his abuser, his master, his host, his _love_...with kind gesticulations with his hands that were slapped away and he was punched and kicked and pulled; made into pieces of dark, gory static again and again…and then unified to feel the stinging feel of a slap…

That’s how it ended. With a whimper. A slap. The onslaught over but Daryl’s teeth were gritted, his face sweaty, his skin pulled by tension and pain.

The Walrider looked on a bit weary… the he spoke, _“Sorry…”_ and continued feverishly, _“I love…you hurt?…you good…bad Slicey…”_ and it slapped itself a bit too, _“I here…I here…”_

Daryl did not pay attention making Slicestorm sob and attempt to coo into the favours again. Suddenly, Daryl grabbed his Walrider’s face — and kissed him hard. The hold was really hard that the inky skin of Slicestorm suddenly had something akin to thumbprints on its head. There was tongue involved. Biting and thrashing of Daryl’s teeth and Slicestorm just moaned a bit. Helpless but somehow cogent to put his skeletal arms around his host.

Daryl was on it almost breathlessly for a minute then a slew of saliva fell as he was out. Daryl then licked the skeletal face…tasting the nanomachines as they went down his throat a bit but then popped out like a sieve tube or a wiry gauze out of his body and join the swarm once more. This was host compatibility. Non-hosts would die as the swarm would pierce through skin and bone. Meaning death in an awful way.

“I am gonna fuck you now. Get ready.” Daryl just said so, matter-of-factly, no hesitation nor second thoughts, and took off his clothes.

Slicestorm complied by hugging his love and taking in really hard thrusts which made Slice give some throaty calls and nothing else.

“Maybe…” Daryl said this while fucking his Walrider, “Your inability to talk properly is Wernicke’s true problem.”

And with that Daryl came; his white seamen mixing with the black translucence of hazy Walrider anatomy and machinery.

Slicestorm gave an insane grin. Blissfully ignorant.

 

* * *

 

Eddie Gluskin saw that The Twins, once he saw them conjoined but now they were separated, follow Miles Upshur and Waylon Park.

While tailing them he ignored hunger and just munched on a candy bar he had stuffed in his pocket. This was pitiful but he was accustomed to starvation. Though it had been a while and he thought all those things were past crimes inflicted. None of the reprisals made him nervous. For he wasn’t a child anymore. As a man he was more than determined to beat down anything and anyone and everything that assaulted him in any way, or, even delicately put looked at him the wrong way.

Eddie had not really been the model inmate.

There was no exaggeration nor excess. Eddie did not easily comply with instructions that forced him to endure _crap_. And by crap he meant he could not always digest the showers. Or, group activities outside. Too many crowds, especially of _men_ , made him miserable. Actually, he did not like it even if it were _women_. And some of the inmates were unruly, or ungentlemanly, one skinny one once even touched his cock and he punched him right in his face. Breaking parts of his face as the guy was way below a good weight-level. Some of the inmates looked spacey and developed intimacy or proximity issues. And he hated how they looked. There was a younger man or boy, Billy Hope that looked happy outdoors. Billy at times invited him to sit around and they played cards. Billy interested him with just his basic sanity. Yet he was jealous because Billy seemed to have most of the personnel _eating_ out of his hands. At one point he was so mad when Billy reported with both nonchalance and excitement that two doctors, male and female respectively, said that his reaction to dream therapy was coinciding well with him responding a bit more actively than others. This information made him punch Billy. They did not stop fraternising after it. Yet Billy was careful to not share everything and Eddie and he did have blocks of silences intersected between the papery sounds of shuffling, adamant cards on a deck.

Gluskin was not put in solitary for his randomized, violent outbursts. Rather his therapy was doubled. Initially, he was very happy about that. Eddie rather spent time with the civilised doctors. They seemed fun, polite, educated — Eddie wanted to be like them. The reason was because he thought that was what success looked like.

Yet Eddied mulled over the fact he felt he had no discernible talent than sewing and good strength coordination. The doctors use really weird words at times like “apoptosis” and “antiapoptotic” and “aphids” (he was pretty sure the last was not really related to the former two, he heard about it once from a neighbour but it seemed foreign), including things like D-cycloserine, skin mutations expressed as lacerations and melanin degeneration. The talk felt interesting, not only because the words sounded foreign to his mouth, but because it felt bloody good to be part of something with so much vernacular, so much importance. So much attention.

Eddie loved the attention at therapy time. Even if it was from a _man_. The man asked him questions, wanted to know what he thought. Yet, Eddie was getting a weary. The doctor in charge of him was a plethora of masks. The stoic, blank face did not change so much except when it did it was seldom of interest and more out of boredom, irritation, incredulity or plain _disgusted_. And all these _bothered_ Eddie. Eddie had grown up and led a simple life. In a simple town life which is still wedded to country and county roots there had been no natural stimulus to be i _nteresting_. As in not in such a calibre. Simple folk preferred charming, hearty personalities preferably paired with reliability and hard work. Interesting came later in that Maslow’s hierarchy. And it had subsets of able to dance well, cook more exotically or read or watch more exotic cooking, knowing a hefty deal about cars, about knitting, about some music, did more reading, etcetera.

The demand of interesting was at a flat plateau because people in those towns could not _afford_ to stay _only_ interesting: their lives were a crosshatch of hard work, paying bills and eating well enough alongside providing for their families. This meant not only for families of five, six or seven but also families of two and single-households. They did not see dreams of vacationing in Paris not because they were uncultured or unrefined (though the notoriety of stereotypes would wrongly put that on some high-tail census) but because they knew without finances, proper bank balances and steady work it would be almost improbable. Yes, some of their children aimed for colleges and that had some good opportunities or the city life would damage and beat those out of them. The most exotic dreams they had were traveling around the country and knowing their lineage well enough or at times, at night, with crickets chirping, with a hanging moon as theatre light they would dream of parties, nicely dressed attires and the ability to rest easy the fingers, mottled by work, wear and the scrutiny of blandness that came unconsciousness in human consciousness on a default.

Yet, Eddie saw the different types of people. Some of these doctors had “made it out”, so to speak, from backgrounds similar to his and had made it an ambition to forget those yesteryears of wanting and hunger and the cheap TV box that was a teasing bitch of a window to a palpable outside. Eddie noticed because it slipped into their “cultured” words, arrested their accents suddenly like a lisp and also was there on their bone-structures, the way of writing (at times a frustrating scribble), the way they intoned on words that shouldn’t be intoned as Eddie had also found out the hard way via women and men looking down on him with their snobby snarls. Yet, their recovery was made of a confidence that Eddie lacked. Good education, a fat payroll and a new status could help those alright.

Well, they were hardworking, a different set of diligence and resilience. The one that has good lunches and dinners, fancy breakfasts of foods you hear about. Yet Eddie did admire their perseverance. Eddie’s life and upbringing had made him sceptical of science; not to mention passionately dislike religion too. To him both were institutions that put people like him down. Yeah he believed in God but to him God was something _pretty_ different than buildings and mumbo-jumbo talk. Though, his mom had been pretty happy with the bible and he wanted to share in her happiness. Some of those passages do at times come to his mouth. At times they were comforting at other times they made him miserable.

One of the doctors looked upset, he heard the voices, “Wait, reptile imagery with childhood sexuality?” In that glass ball with all those crap on him he heard a man say it.

Other doctor said, “We put him in pattern C.” then added, “I am trying to get this horrid image out of my head of this retard fucking an alligator.”

“Iguana probably.” The first contemplated.

“Fuck man I don’t know _which_ is _worse_.” The other one spat out into a waste bucket despite clean room protocols.

Eddie wanted to cry. It was unfair. Those guys seeing his dreams and judging him like this. Were they really that much _better_ than him?

Andrew Lanes had stripped him naked. Saw him sport something akin to morning wood and slapped his penis repeatedly and made fun when after a while for some autonomous reasons or pain relief Eddie just ejaculated. Andrew tasted his spunk too. It was disgusting but he didn’t know what to say so he screamed “Rape!” and the doctor laughed at him saying that he has had no “boy-pussy” injuries making him actually cry. Because he know it was “rape” and he knew his uncle once treated him like this too. His uncle sucked him off and sometimes called him “beautiful” and when he got erections, when he at times felt pleasured (because he didn’t know what else to feel) his uncle had called him a “slut.”  Eddie found sex to be horrible. When he looked at happy men and women in some porn he had puked. For his lived experienced heavily contrasted to what he saw.

When he was seventeen his uncle had still liked him and fucked him. One day he even said that they will be together and that he loved his little Eddie and Eddie’s little thing. Eddie was then a big enough, strapping guy but he felt helpless. His uncle licked his ear and kissed him all sloppily, all tongue and Eddie felt violated. His uncle kept on going about how his father may be into only pedo stuff for who would let go of Eddie just for the ten year old neighbour and while he said it his uncle gave another kiss, slobbering and touching him everywhere. Eddie shivered out of pure anger, pure violation, hate and everything between those feelings: haplessness, anxiety, body dissociation, outer-body pain and imaging, everything. His uncle even said that his dad was a loser but his own love for Eddie was true. Always had and always would be. Eddie by then had really short hair. He couldn’t keep longer locks though his mother insisted. Eddie would cut strands of hair with his pocket-knife or pull on them until they look like lifeless, thin worms or dead insects in his palm. His mother yelled that cleaning his room was a chore as some weird egg hunt as yarns and balls of hair looked indistinguishable at times.

After saying the old-fashioned speech involving all the love-slump which Eddie never ever believed his uncle violated him. The uncle was also always a limped eye-snake so he just was rough to hide his own incompetence. Eddie hated this. But he didn’t know how to express his hate. His privates bruised and he didn’t know what he should be feeling; crying in utter rage. At times his penis got erect automatically due to all the horrendous roughing up; it was almost like the penis wanted to whack his uncle’s face out cold thus it was erect in protest. Yet his uncle, the rapist, obviously thought he _liked_ it. The motherfucker deluded piece of shit. But Eddie felt flustered, unfinished in any pleasure not even _initiated_ in it. Because there was **none**. The body reacted but true affection and completion and pleasure avoided him. Eddie use to flick at his penis at times afterwards to resist the responsibilities of an erection. It hurt and he cried.

Eddie hated masturbation. But he did at times. There was no one actually imaginable at times in his wet-wanking. All was hands and the lips were soft and Eddie felt a certain sense of being loved. The kind that he so yearned. The person would show him true feelings; kiss his mouth nicely, show eyes of love not wanton degeneration. They would touch him in a way that made both his guts and groin feel nothing was left between them aside Eden and some other universe. Away from this abuse, this squalor, with his mother denying the possibility of rapes and abuses. Even before he could say a thing she bandaged his bruises, brought him ice cream and chocolate. And if he cried and said daddy hurt him she would slap him. At one time she even partly punched him and threatened, “Your daddy is a good man. Don’t go mouthing off stuff; you don’t want me and daddy to get upset or leave right.”

This routine was pretty normal one. It happened even when he was seventeen and eighteen. When he was nineteen years old he one day just screamed at his mom: “If you don’t stop running your mouth I am gonna fuck you in the ass as dad and Uncle Robbie fucked mine! And I am gonna be rough as they are too plus interest!”

His mother got so quiet. Then she started sobbing. Then she shrieked and fainted.

Eddie then divided himself from her. Though she tried to be kind to him he preferred that there was distance. He was hurt. So hurt, it blooded his skin as he punched walls, made callouses known to his knuckles, the pain of self-torture, but also bloodied his heart from the inside with multiple stabs and wounds that made him pretty much hollow. At one point, he was weak. That is because he hardly struggled much for he did not know what to do but now he knew he was physically strong.

It all started with him biting his uncle’s dick so hard that man screamed bloody murder. And then roughhoused his father that made his face looked like cheap cotton candy of blood ad tissues. Eddie was more muscular now. More fit. Muscle mass has completed eroded his feelings of weaknesses. He felt invincibility flow through him as he punched his father, holding him against the wall, seeing all that juicy blood clog his yelps for help  and his uncle with a bitten dick screaming and screaming. It was almost like the way his dad had abused him; slapping him, punching him, ripping through him and making it impossible to eat even cookies his momma baked. For eating meant going to the bathroom and he couldn’t take that. Not when he was younger.

That is also one of the ways he knew starvation. It wasn’t pretty when there was plenty around at times.

Then his father and uncle grounded him when he made rude comments. They would hit him around and withhold food from him.

While that was going on his mother had tried to stop him.

That is when it happened.

Eddie backhanded his mother. It felt good. It was wrong. No, it was right. She should be fucked too right? Because she had already fucked him by never saying anything and he was sorry because momma was good, or at least a smidgeon semblance of caring, of love, if that was even possible. But he was mad. And he was crying now harder because he hadn’t meant to hurt his mom.

It just happened.

Eddie looked at her.

That is when he knew something was over.

Eddie followed Miles and Waylon with short bursts. His car was inconspicuous. And he thought about what to say to Waylon, _Would “I am sorry I tried to cut off your dick and was a dick to you.” Any good for an apology?_

 

* * *

 

Miles wounds were healing a bit faster. Waylon knew it was because of the Walrider. Because the machines bonded well with their host. With rejected host, like organ donor failure, the cells rejected the nanomachines and well apoptosis happened. Miles was a clear definition of antiapoptotic anatomy. Rather the nanos were fusing well with Miles and they helped cell regeneration: **the complete reverse**.

Miles saw the look of Waylon. Of fear of both knowledge and the unknown. And for a while he wanted to ruffle his hair; as an indicative gesture of good will. Oh fuck it, Miles got a bit annoyed because all he has done is do _nothing_. Well, his Walrider is still stable and so Waylon shouldn’t be looking at him funny. That fucker told you to come to Murkoff so he is pretty much also responsible — ok, that is not fair, not really, Miles breathed in the rejected tautology and exhales it as to decompose it. 

He was an investigative journalist, a freelancer, it was his job to do tricky reports to well, expose people like Murkoff. It must have been hard for Waylon. Waylon did not like what happened at Mount Massive Asylum. It took just two weeks of doing work there to realise how heinous the place was. However, it seemed because he was a freelancer, not fucked up by greed and a loyalist to the Murkoff Corporation, that he wasn’t really detailed about what the Walrider project was. Frankly speaking, Miles presumed that many of the scientists did not know either. They thought they were testing something that was like testing a man’s anatomical endurance. They had no idea that it manifested so much things out of gothic noir horror and made the exorcist movie looked like Halloween candy.

Speaking of Halloween, his own ghoul may always be in style, maybe just put white sheets on him, for the Casper ghost affect. Miles stifled laughing out loud.

Waylon coming forth was admirable. Yes, it was the right thing to do. But no one else was even _thinking_ of doing it. Not that he saw and heard, and observed. Most people were pretty much happy as long they had their bank accounts fat-catting two seal point-Siamese twins and a retriever on the side.

Walrider chuckled, _“That is pretty funny.”_

 _Oh, yeah, sometimes, he knows my unconscious thoughts too…_ Miles decided to not really pay attention to his Walrider. Yet saw Waylon’s attention dart to him a bit. As if asking if he said something. Miles give a small smile. Then realised something, _Wait, can he hear my Walrider clearly, is that normal?_ His smile changed from warm to a smaller enough smirk. Not anything aggressive or well ill ominous. Waylon smiled a bit too. The accent of the smile was pleasant. The grooves of the lips, somewhat pink, somewhat cherry like with purple. They were an interesting pair of lips. Pretty nice. Waylon had a warm aura around most of his face and body and expressions. Miles liked it. It seemed he was a bit innocent, but at the same time intelligent and prudent. Miles found it a bit… _endearing_ …was that the proper word?

When he had woken up this morning he had accidentally dropped some of Waylon’s scribbles and saw a note that was specific about math and he had to admit, he was impressed: _That guy has the Flash’s math skills that one._ When he saw the mention of infinity and the 0.0833333 lines. Those were pretty fast calculations. But math was not something he was passionate about. To him math may be a science of respectable means and he excelled at it but he had liked literature and journalism better because to him such high level math did not really correspond to humanity aside technological innovations.

All this time Miles was housing his Walrider within his body. The road was too much of an open space and his Walrider did complain that too much openness was still too much stimulus for him to muster so he didn’t overwhelm “Wallie” (so he named his Walrider). Yet the Walrider has mentioned the car was okay enough for getting out and doing a few rounds if necessary.

This was a direct implication of a threat. With all talons pointed at The Twins. They were at the back. Napping. Waylon’s hand of the steering wheel was a bit tight but also a bit wobbly. Obviously, both Miles and Waylon didn’t know The Twins’ angle and what bothered them also was a lack of an angle too. Miles had told Waylon in the morning, moving him quietly to the bathroom, with the Walrider standing guard outside that The Twins were helping a weird man called Father Martin. That while the Walrider was wreaking havoc this makeshift priest thought it best to call it a Godsend (saw Waylon cringe at the mention of that) and then Father Martin committed suicide; burned himself at the stake as an immolation in crucifixion style. Waylon meekly admitted that he saw Father Martin but had not thought much about him as he was writing graffiti with blood. Miles smirked because it looked pretty cute, the way…the way Waylon’s upper lip clung to his lower one in a form of wonderment. It was hot. Really hot. Burning hot. Nah — don’t ruin that picture with Father Martin dying ‘cause Waylon’s expressions were pretty lovely.

The Twins were exhausted though. Waylon had spoken earlier that he once heard a few conjoined subjects that were brought. Most of the batch of twelve pairs didn’t make it, it was written in a report, before Waylon had started his job. The Morphogenic engine had bad effects on them. Two twins gnawed their own conjoined state off: which meant instant death as liver was in their teeth by the time they were done. These Twins had been a bit more different. They had come conjoined with a bit of limited intelligence or rather as Wernicke had put in their documents: No one had assisted in their development as required. The Twins had begun as incontinent, unordered and slovenly adults who could not care much for themselves and soon after some Morphogenic test runs they had some skin lacerations but their minds were more or less on a normal coherency level. Waylon confessed he did not entirely trust The Twins as their intelligences had been anchored, sucked on the tit and nursed by the phallic rumbling of a mad machine that made the improbability device in _The Hitchhiker’s guide to the Galaxy_ look like some soufflé in a bakery. They were Variants and they had the same instability or weirdness as Variants do.

Waylon said he was also exposed to the engine. But nothing Variant-like had happened to him. Not that he knew off. Miles took a note on all this and said, a bit tongue-in-cheek, that he was happy they shared. Waylon masked a smirk that was a cross between frolic and sheepish. Miles responded in a kind of half-mouthed grin. They hadn’t understood how easily their body synced so pleasantly. Or, when they did understand this. Both of them had a tinge of nervousness in both their smiles.

“I am sorry.” Waylon suddenly, softly, with genuine scale and tone, said making Miles look at him questioningly, “I am sorry if I seem distrusting…I know it is an insult to what you are going through…thinking about it made me feel like crap…it is not some methodical way of trying to make you look like a dick or something untrustworthy. I am just so unhappy I can’t do anything…” Waylon almost swallowed sob, “I am a programmer, the Walrider is also a program, but I know jack-shit about it. I am just…I am just confused you know…I wanna help you more…I put you in this situation…I am going to try to help you more and I am gonna try, that I can promise…”

“Look, I ain’t a kid okay.” Miles looked determinedly at Waylon. There was a tremor of total annoyance in his voice but its main energies weren’t to make anything worse, “Look, you gave me just a bloody email on instinct. A whole lot of my kind of work runs on it. You know when I came to Mount Massive it was darker than a vampire-bat’s ass and the security systems looked failed. That itself was a bad sign but I _wanted_ to go inside and saw dead guards and still kept going. I wanted the story Waylon. And you wanted to get out and say it too so we both took our chances and to be honest I am not so pissed at where I am now because it ain’t so bad staying alive and doing things our way. A good, clean enough way.” Then Miles winked, “Besides, Wallie isn’t so bad right? Has some advantages.”

“Wallie?” Waylon had been listening intently. Yet the sound of the name threw him off a bit. His attentions were still more or less focused on the road. Waylon had insisted that Miles being Walrider-stricken should get as much rest as possible and they weren’t sure how Walriders behaved around other kinds of engines. Miles thought the concern was cute but also the way he handled the situation with a perplexity he felt only intellectuals like him would have: Morphogenic engine Vs. Diesel Engine, the showdown. Miles had laughed and Waylon looked a bit more serious and said that when he was exposed the Rorschach Blot test from hell stayed with him a lot and it was like taking a psychedelic trip through your ass to your brain. Miles laughed at that yet admitted the engine was unstable and right now shouldn’t be a good time to see if he had driving competency.

“I thought Walrider could use a name.” Miles grinned that wide grin that really made Waylon smile as a complementary gesture. Waylon thought Miles had really pretty teeth; dentistry could help solve things and whiten but Waylon noticed the natural ridges and arcs near a canine here and the gums there and concluded that was not dentistry just God knowing how to make teeth look like mountain ranges. For Waylon, religion had not really taken a turn but he did think about God at times. Waylon noticed that when arrested or even encountering minutiae or zeniths of aesthetics, of beauty God rolled off his tongue as the best theorem. Because he knew no other words to describe the beautiful, except that. Miles smirks, smiles and grins were a testament to beauty. They at times were cocky but not with condescension more like a cuteness of being mischievous as a guy. Then they slickly followed a confidence. A pretty thing, not too flamboyant or arrogant, just the nice temperature of the oven finely tuned attractive qualities.

“Well ‘Wallie’ is a nice go-between. It’s seems probable enough. Wallie is a good name.” Waylon nodded, smiling. It felt almost strange that some hours ago they had been trying to save their lives from said-thing and all other violent people and now they named _him_. It was hilarious. But Waylon just chuckled quietly.

“Wallie Waylon Miles, Wallie Waylon Miles, Wallie Waylon Miles, Wallie Waylon Miles, Wallie Waylon Miles…” Miles repeated the three words then his grin, wide-teethed and warm, returned, “Say that a couple times fast and it sounds like a weird subject verb object things like you are a verb and Wallie is doing something to me.”

Waylon laughed a bit harder now, “Sure generative grammar here does make sense…” he got a bit breathless and Miles affectionately smiled. “I am being a bit serious it kinda does make sense.”

“It’s fun. This. You are fun too.” Miles complimented and Waylon almost could feel a tingling feeling, a blush, reach his mouth, his throat alongside the conventional cheek parameter and looked down a bit.

“Thanks. You are fun and creative.”  Waylon pretty softly said so. Was this, I mean, was this normal? The companionable pleasant ease they catered too. Maybe, it was normal because they had shared an ordeal together. But Waylon knew that was skirting the surface because it felt more natural than that.

“Laugh at my jokes, tell me that and you don’t have to well buy me coffee…” It came out before Miles could say anything other than that. And, with a generous shrug, also winked on it. Waylon chuckled a bit nervously. This was…well, what was it, he was not certain…but well, giving into the banter…

“Are you that easy?” The joke flowed naturally making Miles grin wider.

“Hey, that’s just introductions, right? I don’t play too hard to get. Do you?” Miles put the ball in his court.

“I don’t know…I haven’t had many interactions. I like talking…about stuff…” Waylon blushed and nervously uttered what he was thinking, “My style, if I even have a discernible one, is like well you know how, matrices work?”

“You mean the math of it?” Miles did not look bored. Rather he looked pretty interested. There was a half-smile tugging on those corners.

“Yes, matrices well they correspond to numbers in a line way so I guess my conversations go like that.” Waylon was getting a bit less confident because he was pretty sure people were not supposed to talk math in these kind of scenarios, God, how did Lisa put up with this…? It sounds kinda lame…

“So is it like you don’t want your conversations to be exhausted, be dynamic like matrices is that it.” Miles, triumphantly, cocked his brow, after a few moments, as though he solved a puzzle, the mischievousness of it was pretty alluring.

Waylon looked on a bit confused. Deep inside his shirt he was feeling a bit flushed. The truth was he has never had such a man, who was confident and a bit more athletic looking than him, pay so much attention to him. In Berkeley Miles would easily be a frat boy without much sports credentials. The suave tone of his tongue, coupled with his nonchalant witty air made him a perfect marksman in social events and the crème de la crème wingman for all occasions. Miles would fit perfectly into the undercurrents of risqué jokes, clashes of testosterone and the pinnacle of party-piñatas with panties on his face still at noon. Waylon was, in all matters, an opposite. Went to Berkeley to study, would know code jokes and would gush with tech nerds about a hottie staring at his ass secretly, a potential choice. Would probably date a guy or girl with socio-political hardware that also titillating his software; probably waxed Rousseau while reading to pump Waylon’s cock in an expert tango of quid pro quo to which Waylon would simmer something about differential graphs. Or a person from his own majors or an explorative Literature student. Miles would be the energetic A student but with a partying sort of exterior.

Where could they meet if they did? In class. Would Miles approach him with a ‘hey, I heard you a software geek I took an elective in some JavaScript and it is pissing me off’ or would it be ‘hey what is the cosine to a political uprising in some country half away across the world, is it adjacent to math don’t care.’ Or, would he accidentally to a frat party and see Miles and Miles half-awake look at him and say ‘so desserts are on me.’ Spray whip cream on himself with a wink going, ‘if you are interested.’

Waylon gulped at the last scenario. Wow, that hypothesis went way off the track to Waylon…no he meant…fuck it.

“You are so witty. You got what I meant.” Waylon managed, genuinely, to say the truth about how nice it was to be with sync with someone. To be understood and to understand with such an integrity and an integral nuance of topics. It really felt like a cool differential equations calculus. The study neat but very flexible. _Maybe, you can cut out the math analogies a bit Waylon_ , he smiled a bit at himself sweet and polite also at Miles, _I mean math don’t make such nice observations about you_.

“You thought I was dumb?” Miles narrows his gaze a bit but it isn’t an angry scowl, it looked playful but Waylon still apologised.

“I am so sorry I don’t mean…” Waylon looked a bit flustered. The road felt like a differential calculus with the mountains swishing shifts and turns and the gravel mixed with elemental rock: the derivatives of persistence, willpower and the occasional humour. The function, the “x marks the spot” of basic speech and math lingo, was to be more quizzically quixotic than calculus norm could mutter up. “You are very smart Miles.”

“And Miles I have to go before I sleep.” Miles looked at the befuddled Waylon, “So I don’t get frost on my bones in some village where I do not care what neighbours are to catch me when I am unawares. Their safety is behind a fence I built with them.” Then winking again, “Get it, Robert Frost medley.”

Waylon genuinely grinned. Miles was really fun. And their rapport was going smoothly. “You are too witty.”

“Ah, a journalist’s armour is a good verbal cunnilingus get what I mean.” Miles said that and Waylon now blurting out laughing. Behind them The Twins grumbled and one smiled the other cocked a brow.

Miles laughed along.

Waylon felt a peaceable wave between them. Unshrouded by static. Walrider rode on it too. Undisturbed as though it too was charged with something that was slowly forming in its mind pleasantly and did not form before:

White noise.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there, that was that chapter. Sorry if it was very LARGE. I just let the words win. I hope no is having problems with the length. PLEASE COMMENT AND TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING :D Your comments and Kudos are keeping me going on with this guys!


	5. Pullings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter. Lots of things happen here. Please take your time reading. Thank you for reading...woooh wow this is a really long chapter oh it has some details about Daryl, The Twins, Milon/ Waymiles attention and a bit of Eddie/Waylon ;)

 

**Pullings**

 

It took them some time. Time was also something abundant for them. Waylon was patient and asked them again. It did bring forth some memory.

“I am…I think I am Tim…” The older one, bald, said so. With a certain knowing.

“I am Tom…it came back a bit.” The one with the hair, younger and a bit less bulky than his brother, spoke with a smile. 

Even if they were making up these names, Waylon thought it feasible. After all he did not want to collectively refer to them as simply, The Twins. Though Waylon annoyed thought that they _wouldn’t_ mind it. They _would_ want to be apprehended as such because of their Siamese brain type patterns. Their talking was pretty punctuated by halving syntaxes and ideas between themselves. Sharing is caring and all that philosophy put to the neurotic limit. However, Waylon thought some distinguishability was important.

The past couple of hours, and days, had blinked and blurred into finite blocks of time and infinite blocks of memory,

Waylon, Miles and The Twins are at a small diner now. They ate quietly some burgers and fries. The twins picked a bit of the lettuce, peeling off the tomatoes and some flakes of cheese. Waylon admonished them, automatically: “You need to eat everything. Stop being finicky, a burger is a burger ‘cause of those things you are trying to take out. You are _ruining_ the burger, boys.”

Miles, smiled with food in his mouth, _Such a natural father_.

The Twins were surprised. True they have been berated before in the asylum but not with such additional information. Not with a tenderness that was an expose on “why, what, when and where” — they smiled, their canines pointed, the weird glint in their eyes. Waylon looked a bit nervous at the attitude. Even Miles sipped his coffee a bit slowly, preparing for any sort of violence.

They laughed out loud and the waitress looked at them seriously and cursed and walked away. She was an older woman who probably seed all “shapes and sizes” of people under the clouds so Variant physiology did not seem to have been much noticeable by her. Or, even if she did notice, she was not one to discriminate. The Twins were very tall, had hefty builds, odd facial features — Miles presumed they were products on some generational incest — and had weird yellow-grey wyes that glinted. If this post-Morphogenic engine or not both Waylon and Miles were not sure but their eyes had a glowing quality that felt preternatural and something feral.

“Oh, this Waylon man so cute.”

“Yes, so fatherly.”

“I like his attentions.”

“As a lover or father?”

“That is a good question to ask.”

Waylon almost spit out the water he was drinking. Miles swallowed hard a bit of burger lettuce. They both looked up at the strange gleeful expressions. Waylon nervously accentuated, “We shouldn’t talk too much at the dinner table.” 

Tom laughed a bit throatily, then outreached slowly a finger to twirl around one of Waylon’s loose threads of hair, partial bang, “Sorry daddy.”

The older Twin, Tim, assisted in twirling another loose strand, “We gonna behave, or you can _make_ us.”

Waylon deeply blushed. And turned his face away. Miles put down his fist, hard, on the table, “That’s enough. You are not **allowed** to _touch_ him understand?”

The Twins looked ever more gleeful, “We need _permission_ , from _you_?” Tim stated.

“Is he _yours_?” Tom chuckled. Then added, “What a possessive momma.”

Miles was burning, out of rage and embarrassment, _Fuck so I am the “momma” to Waylon’s “daddy” — wait, aren’t I a bit more hefty — ok, gender stereotypes aside, wait why do they insist on me being momma or…whatever…_ Miles rasped, “I think I liked you guys better when you were chasing me with machetes and saying weird things like killing me.”

“Well, that was then.” Tom assured.

“This is now.” Tim continued.

“What is ‘this’ exactly?” Waylon almost growled surprising all three of them, “I am not a _toy_. I don’t _belong_ to Miles like a _pet_. And, keep your disgusting ideas to yourself. I am just _me_. I am a father and I have two kids too. You two eating with me. Just reminded me of them. That’s all.”

“Well, two boys, momma and daddy.” Tom looked at Tim.

“Yes, it is almost like you are with your family.”

“Yeah, I doubt his kids are twins.” Miles snorted in absolute annoyance, “Especially of the incestuous variety.”

“Miles…” Waylon said this a bit immediately. For some reason he didn’t want them to be insulted like this. Yes, they were being petulant but…Waylon didn’t want the tabooed nature of their blood and lineage being exploited by their shared anger. For all Waylon presumed, rape could have been involved. Their facial features and their looks did make incest suspect of their ties. They don’t know the story but something inside Waylon made it hurt.

 And instinctively he thought of _Eddie Gluskin, Was that guy also an incestuous child? Because he was already a victim of it._ Yet thinking of Gluskin confused him because well, he was trying to not be so empathetic on him. Well, it was mean but…Waylon was having a hard time forgetting his close-calls with castration. However, Lisa had said, his nature was the “feeling” sort. Despite a certain hate he felt for Eddie.  Hoping he wouldn’t laugh at his injured body. Waylon did somewhat feel pity and sympathy for him. It was limited though. Probably, Waylon also got mad that Eddie was mimicking “love”, “affection” and “marriage vows” but wasn’t really caring about them. Did he know what they were? For a moment he recollected Eddie’s Gluskin when he talked about “kissing” others.

The Twins blinked. They looked a bit angry. But more hurt.

Tom looked down in embarrassment. Tim looked away and gritted his teeth.

Miles saw their demeanour and realised he was being a total A-class dick. “I am sorry, that was totally fucked up and insensitive.” Miles chewed his burger as he said this, “It’s just…Waylon isn’t…well, I mean…”

“Miles…you are being too rude.” Tim looked at them. A bit more calm.

“We were only playing.” Tom looked up. Their expressions a bit sad.

“It is only that he is quite beautiful.” Tim smiled a bit at Waylon.

“Truly a perfect beauty.”  Tom gave a chuckle.

“You are lucky to be beautiful.”

“Yes, look at us we are not.”

Waylon felt borderline nervousness, tingling shyness and a sorrow. Was it truly what they felt? “You guys aren’t bad looking. You are tall, sturdy men. You look like decent human beings. Remember that a man is made by his character. His actions. His promises and words. How he treats other men and also women. You are men who probably have never had the chance to be men. You were treated as experiments. Rest assured, Miles and I have no intention to treat you as such…” Waylon looked at Miles as he stated this, Miles gave a slight nod, their body language and thoughts harmonic, “We want to ask you as men to men can we trust you? We already have had so much done in so much time. Yes, compared to your miseries our list may be shorter. But do know we have struggled and felt pain.” Waylon breathed, “We are not as seasoned as you. The horrors of Mount Massive Asylum were all too new to us. We just need a bit of a breather.”

The Twins were a bit open-mouthed. They were not used to be treated as individuals. Let alone be addressed with a speech on morals and characters. Yes, the zeal of Father Martin was emblazed on them. That too could have been moral-talk. But the good “priest” had never been bothered treating them as people. Then the older one, a bit more reserved than the other one with hair, reassuringly talked: “Thank you for your kindness Waylon Park.  Miles Upshur…” motioned both of them, “We do not mean any harm. Our reasons to harm anyone has been gone with the spaces of the asylum.”

“We need something new…” Tom said, “We want to live outside and we need guides like you. We do not know how to live and to be honest we do think it is a God-given fate.”

“Father Martin’s choices don’t really coincide with ours.”

“We had not wanted crucifixion.”

“Frankly…” Tim tittered a laugh, “I don’t think we would have sturdy beams to hoist us up.”

“I want to know how to be normal.” Tom added, “Tim too. You are right in thinking we were not ‘normal’ but then again no chances were given to be.”

“Well, we aren’t really ‘normal’ now.” Miles finally interjected, “We are kinda fugitives. I mean there is no guarantee for me or Waylon as what we gonna do next. This is bigger than us, but at times I wish it wouldn’t be.” 

“I want something close to my old life back.” Waylon muttered quietly. Everything that was happening was too much beyond what he knew, learned and had previously accepted. His belief-system was not shattered. It was like a glitch or new variables in the mainframe. The CPU, the cortex, was in a bit of the Rubicon. Appropriating these new analog conjectures in a digital script would be tricky. Well, he had to say analog as human psychology precedes technology and the Walrider project has something primeval in it. Digital systems were a bit like air; the problem is that it sometimes lacked the tenacity to stop being osmotic. And when it has too many shifts in another pattern it may coagulate, exsanguinate or exhaust as well a solid viscera. Digital needs an analogue surface like air needed trees to rustle. Analog has had some drawbacks as classical mechanics. To analog systems, in general, friction and any other stimuli that made an extrinsic quantity qualifiable to be well “influences” would be taken as “negative.” The digital helps limit or rather give cell membranes to a system in a relation to quantum properties. But it seems that both theses styles will have to always mate and acknowledge each other. Even in a dichotomy. Looking up Waylon went, “I do not know if that possible or what is possible. All I know is that I have to be honest. About myself. My intentions. And keep my integrity.”

“I know I have to keep my willpower and my mind open.” Miles chimed in. Hearing Waylon talk, at time it could be frustrating. Waylon was a bit, well, at times so vanilla sort of good.  But then again, vanilla wasn’t fully Waylon’s breadth and length. Miles had to admit that he found it easy, comfortable, to open up in front of Waylon. Made an environment for it. Not knowing that Waylon was thinking the same things. How Miles helped him focus and feel stronger. In a comfortable pace, nothing too rushed and slow. Miles then cocked his head to see Waylon in a more concentrated angle, “I think we both are on the same page.” Then firmly to The Twins, “You guys don’t need to be on the same page; just don’t put chicken scratch on it: in plain speak don’t get in our way, don’t fuck around. We are in bitching circumstances. Twilight zone arena.”

“Well,” Tim put a bored like hand on his chin, tilting and looking at Miles, “I heard that was a good show from an inmate. Before he looked at blank television static. We should watch it together.”

“Is those kind of shows appropriate right _now_? I would gladly watch ‘care bears’ or ‘blue’s clues’ right about now.” Waylon sighed.

“I also heard those were good shows.” Tom smiled, “From that weird guy, Rick Trager.”

Both Miles and Waylon bolted up and looked at the haired Twin dead in the eye. As though he was joking. “Nah, I am not joking.” Tom laughed, “We are too big to kill. Though he would just buddy us up, as he was saying. Got pissed when we chose Father Martin.”

“Father Martin was more manageable.”

“More kind.”

“More humane.”

“To the Variants at least.”

Miles snarled. Looking at his bandaged fingers. The missing pieces. Trager made him so furious…oh…uhm…

“Miles calm down!” Waylon screamed…but it was too late…

A large shadowy energy bounced of off him and hit his mug and shattered it to a million pieces. One of the pieces hit Tom inches from his left eye, and two pieces now stuck near Tim’s lips. Waylon used his arms as a shield but he even got a slight cut near his right palm. Miles looked at the spilled coffee. Looked at the small damages. Which could have been more dangerous?

The startled Twins spoke:

“Yes, it would be wise not to speak about Father Martin.”

“Or Rick Trager.”

“Especially Rick Trager.”

“Rick Trager…we don’t know him…”

“Stop repeating his name…”

Waylon looked at the bleeding Twins and himself. Giving them and himself tissues as Miles looked on blankness. “Maybe I should go outside.” With that he exited the diner.  Adamantly, angrily and outside near the road to nowhere he screamed, yelled, punched himself.

“You piece of shit!”

_“Wow, name-calling…”_ Walrider grumbled.

“Fuck, of all the things Trager set you off!”

_“Look, Trager hurt you on a bad level. Trager was malicious. A malicious you knew. Also you were angry and…both of us get overwhelmed…you are my fuel Miles. I did not decide to hurt them or you…it was just how we are now. We have to be more cautious.”_ Walrider came a bit out of Miles’s body and tried to given him a warm talon on his shoulder.

Miles was having none of it.

He screamed and slapped the Walrider away. Who dispersed into static for a moment. He kicked at rocks, stones, pebbles in that order and reverse.  And any observer noticed he was able to crush even relatively large rocks or stones with ease.

There it was his eyes shrouded in that aura.

That single-minded need to destroy. To feel the happiness, the ecstasy of rage (as Wernicke had once called it), to know  that even a feeling as animal as this  could be severed from his consciousness and materialise and do all his dirty work.

“Miles…” someone called softly from behind.

With a vulpine grin he looked, mouth-open, hanging between total hyper stimulation and loss of any identity.

The glaring in the glow made Waylon take a step back. Almost felt his foot fall wrong. This wasn’t the Miles he had been talking with just hours ago. Nor, essentially the Walrider he found a bit of a talker. This was pure anger, rage, grit mixed with negative auras in Miles and the Walrider’s instinctual needs to be intense. Waylon felt unhappy that Miles felt so angry. Waylon knew all that anger was justified. It came from many different places. The past, the present, the despair of thinking the future was gone before it began.

Waylon, carefully, with his heart being lead, but also fluid like watery steel, went, stepped carefully in front. Gulping, swallowing, feeling bile and sweat tangle in his tongue, he slowly took both of Miles hands to scrutinise in a tender way. “I didn’t want to bring it up.” Waylon looked at Miles, whose eyes was still a shroud of grey and blue, “It looked too painful and visibly so. Did Trager do this?”

Miles looked away. As though drugged. Waylon nervously let go of his hands. He was scared. Then Miles caught them again, a bit gently, and nodded though he looked elsewhere.

“I can’t imagine the pain. I don’t want to.” Waylon shivered, “It feels awful.” A small tear almost formed, “But I admire that you didn’t give up. That you still triumphed. I don’t know if I could. I would probably pass out from the horror of it. From the teeming injustice of it. By the disgusting, inhumanity of it — the un-animal sense of it too. To use nothing but just insanity as some twisted elixir. I am still frightened now. But the Walrider _chose_ you. And that…”  Waylon’s breath was warm, it almost illuminated under the coldness-ice-hot magnetism that the Walrider and Miles formed, “That made it _sane_. Sensible. Sense. Infused with some sort of care, moral, ethic, humanity; whatever names and labels under the sun.”

“Sanity, is…” Miles struggled to speak, there was something bestial about his tone that made Waylon shudder and look at his hands in his, worriedly, but Miles did not focus on it, “Overrated.”

That is when Waylon looked determined, “It’s not.” Waylon yelled then, “Sanity is not overrated! _Normal_ is but _not_ sanity! Those two are not the same!” Then tightening the grip on his hands, “I believe you are as sane with the Walrider as you were _without_ it. I truly believe it!”

Miles’s feral aura, or the methodical insanity of it, quietened a bit. Looking at his finger-missing hands interlock still so symmetrically with Waylon’s all-fingers around hands made him swallow a small weight in his mouth. Waylon’s hands help him to help his injuries and his still intact fingers work out a possible symmetry. It was math. But also much more than that. It was poetry but also something mathematical. Yet, should his full-fingered hands lock so nicely with his though he made an effort? Well, he did make the right kind of effort. And his hands were smooth, not as rough as his, they were not dainty just smoother. The arching of the knuckles, the lovely tangents of the sinews, the feel of warm blood beneath (now a bit more discernible with the Walrider within in), he had the hands sketch-artists pined to perfect with the swishing carbons of their pencils. The dactyl terrains of palms he saw a bit in hindsight. The curving nature of them, interstices between his lacking-fingered hands. Miles repulsed at the memory of the visible bone in one. No bandage can cage that angry sledge of anatomy severed. But Waylon had put a finger, a forefinger on it, no contest he felt the ragged edge of sharp bone there. But he showed no discrimination. Only a tenderness to his monster.

Miles realised then that he would be the envy of Frankenstein. For he got what that fabled half-man wanted. Understanding.

Yet he was afraid. This understanding was happening too fast. What if he slipped and fall? Like he did, as journalism had taught him, that akin to rock climbing, got to get your feet in  the right crevices, the right angles, in right angles if necessary because no need for geometry expertise but a geometrical understanding that if you are 90° away from some tangible way of handling angles you will plummet to crap-ravines. Yet there was no rock form here. No traditional height. Was he already in the crap-ravine? Maybe. And no one knew if angles worked there. Or maybe he was in an amorphous cloud, a “cloud atlas” as David Mitchell would say, so traditional geometries of rock climbing are now surmounted with a spatial understanding of string theory? Fuck, what was he saying?! Fuck, fuck,fuck… Damn, this was hard. This was **fucking** hard.

“Much Madness is divinest Sense -  
To a discerning Eye -  
Much Sense - the starkest Madness -  
’Tis the Majority  
In this, as all, prevail -  
Assent - and you are sane -  
Demur - you’re straightway dangerous -  
And handled with a Chain –“

Waylon mouthed these words and Miles looked quizzically at him, “Emily Dickinson, poem number ‘620’.” Waylon then looked at their crisscrossed hands, “I realised that poem is similar to parabolas. A three point parabola equation. It goes three different ways. Equidistant with each other. That’s one of the reasons it is a masterpiece to me.” Softly he smiled, still glancing at the hands and also looking at Miles’s murky eyes, a bit less wilder now, “You see  some senses, like making money, is made madness by Murkoff but well you know  to their discerning eye it makes sense. But it is also true that staying sane can invite a madness of its own at times, your Walrider, Wallie, knows you are sane. You are sane enough to demand something better. I demurred with my mail I was ‘straightway dangerous’ to Murkoff. I was ‘handled with a chain’ so to speak. And in some ways so was Billy and so you are. But Dickinson did not let _those_ kind of people rule her. We shouldn’t either.”

Miles looked at the warmth of Waylon’s hands.  Felt them. And he was a bit spellbound. Something told him so was the Walrider. Quoting the poetry of a reclusive genius? Something about that made sense to him. Made a whole hard, fucking, logical sense. And it was emotive too. It had the didactic accents of poetry but also its freestyle constructs. Miles glow ebbed and its fury was replaced with a luminescence of moths or butterflies in the middle of the night. A grey firefly singing as an ionized cloud not an aberrant storm.

Miles now etched a smile. A small offering for the poem, the consolation, the exceptional care given. I don’t know…I think this will become a pattern…and I don’t know…I don’t know how I  can repay him…this bliss…hey are you responsible…?

“Now you are gonna blame me for your feelings. Hey this isn’t confusion or I ain’t really a daemon you know, not figuratively, paranormally or psychological crap…I am like a bad conscience…I can illicit bad feelings but…I am not doing this…I feel nice…too…” Walrider sighed and breathed, “I am feeling…really good too…” 

“Waylon…I am sorry…” Miles smiled a bit brightly his aura in check, “I…I will try…”

Waylon breathed out loud with a cry and collapsed on Miles who grabbed him instantly, “I was so scared, I thought you were gonna bite off my fingers!”

“If you are scared of what I am gonna do, why are you crashing on _me_?!”  Miles looked bemused and seeing Waylon a bit out of breath…was kinda…well, like this…uhmm… _exciting_ …?

_“I wish I could kiss him now.”_ Walrider looked a bit zoned out, _“Do you think he would kiss us back?”_

Oh, shut the fuck up. Miles looked annoyed but he embraced Waylon. Miles hasn’t really embraced someone in a long while. Well, non-sexually…with affection and…kindness…his arms locked a bit hard, a bit rough, tensed up muscles…then interworked naturally on his own tired muscles…his own back… a bit near the small of it…bit near the large expanse near his shoulders…he felt something he would call silky, and smell of wet grass, nibbling on the fibres of his skin, his palms but also tickling the nerves of his toes and spine. He was liking holding him. His head got buried on the side of his. He was just an inch taller. Not really so prominent. Miles crooned his neck a bit down and he could feel his breath mingle with the soft cartilage of Waylon’s ear, sticking tiny threads of hair, his nose automatically rubbed in and got thicker locks. Dark chestnut hair. Slightly a shade down from his deeper brunette. The smell so lush and electric. So innocent…so male…so erotic…a plethora of things…

Waylon breathing tamed. Not raspy, not wounded, just right. Lungs now no longer pushed to elastic limits. Waylon felt Miles’s nose near his head, buried a bit between ear, neck and hair. His hands enveloped him too. They had good strength but also a knowledge on embraces. Unlike Miles’s initial awkwardness Waylon had an expertise. Yet it wasn’t Casanova-status. Rather Waylon looked for the rhythm of Miles’s breathing and tried to caress-cross them with his hands, to a comfortable place where breathing would treat his hand as complimentary waves. His nose went near Miles’s sculpted neck. Also touched the sweet rough yet delicate bones of the ears. Waylon had a longer nose. It had a small needling sort of elegance. Like classic oriental prints mixed with a Welsh flair. Their breathing then just clicked. Circadian rhythms actually corresponded nicely in tune. There was a soft hum, a static, but more ambient noise, thriving.

In Miles head he saw a rippling, inky mechanism, like ink blots of Rorschach but also moving like threads of hair in harmony, as in water. Miles realised this was something like the Walrider’s inner aura too and he could see it with his mind’s eye. It felt at ease, at rest, funny…he did not see this before…

_“I feel happy…”_ Walrider just hummed. It felt surprised, _“I am…scared…”_

Miles got a bit alert, _Why, Wallie?_

_“I have never been happy, before.”_   Walrider’s smile was a bit subtle, a bit flickering between fear and feeling.

_You should get used to it…_ Miles was happy he was in co-control of the situation because something told him even the Walrider got crazy and lost control when influenced or giving over base anger and malice.

_“With Waylon, or happiness, or both?”_ Walrider asked innocuously, was eager, and charged, for an answer. 

_Uhmm, maybe both…for now…_ Miles then gave a startled something, _Hey you are in my body…but you are also kind of whispering…_

_“That’s because Waylon, well, when I am materialised, I don’t know otherwise…he can hear me…”_ Walrider said plainly.

Wow, and he has not told me this…Miles looked at Waylon now. There was a bit of a raised brow that Waylon questioned with a soft ‘huh’.

“Well, he thought this was normal because I am bonded to you. Not to Billy who was well, no longer healthy body…”

“Hey, you can talk to the Walrider?”

Waylon nods, slowly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Miles still held him and Waylon him.

“I just got to know and I didn’t know what it meant and…The Twins…the evidence…I am sorry too…I just wasn’t paying attention to it.” Waylon looked at him, “I am trying to drown out that Wallie said that I may immune to Walrider project.”

“Wow, that’s…” Miles looked at him intently, “That’s big Waylon.”

“I know but I am confused. Wallie said he sees this strange bioluminescence on me and he can’t really attack me or go inside me. I don’t know what this means. We already have big problems and I really thought it was normal because you know you aren’t in a fucked up state like Billy.” Then Waylon looked pretty apologetic, “But it was wrong of me to not say it sooner. We are just doing what we can and I just…I didn’t know how to break it…till now…”

Miles nodded, “Look, we in this together it seems. And…” Miles did not feel hurt, after what Waylon did, he understood, he was as overwhelmed as him, and frankly with The Twins around there hasn’t been much time to say anything secretive, “We should just share stuff.”

Waylon nodded.

“So…that organisation did everything to cover our tracks…” Miles pocketed one of the keys in his pocket, “Well, we should go to our new home. Or safe house. Whatever it is. Long journey ahead.”

_Away from Lisa and the boys, maybe, this is for the best, but…_ Waylon recalled calling Lisa from the VIRALeaks headquarters. Lisa and he broke down. After telling her in one breath what had happened. He had also talked to the boys a bit. Chioh was calling him Batman and Superman. Hyuan stated that he knew Blaire that piece of shit (“language Hyuan.” Waylon interjected in his paternal role) was lying about him and he was so happy to know that he was alright. Both boys stated that they missed him, though. Chioh with a bit more sadness but Hyuan with a firmness that showed he did support his father’s choices but also missed him. Then Lisa and Waylon talked about some personal things; things they had hinted at the boys over a year ago…Lisa then agreed a bit…It was a win-win…But she said she loved Waylon and Waylon said he loved her a lot. At one point he was crying, maybe more for the other thing than missing her…

“We could have been beautiful.”

_God, Eddie Gluskin’s epic one-liners_ , Waylon recollected them at times, they were cryptic and unsavoury but, he wanted to laugh because he decided it kind of made sense…here anyways…

The Twins looked at Miles and Waylon. The waitress had looked at them unhappily and stated they needed to pay for the mug. They seemed disinterested but nodded. Then one of them said:

“I think the question of lover or father has been answered, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

* * *

 

 

The office looked so clean. Cleaner than a clean room. It had all the perfumed scents: a bit of vanilla, a bit of natural essence of the wood of the desk and some herbs. The sanity of sanitation behind it hit him like an implacable tremor.

That was when he wet himself.

And shat himself too.

The crimson-eyed Walrider looked pretty surprised. It had seen people lose their bowels and pee; well, seeing him was an indicator but the office? After all that time in the grime and sludge and squalor it presumed the human would welcome cleanliness. It dirtied itself, thought the Walrider, adding misery to a miserable state. The actions and consequences did not correspond. At least, not to his Walrider sensibilities.

Daryl cocked an amused head angrily. The stench had set in too. Yet, he didn’t care. Daryl gave a giggle.

It was Wernicke who screamed and pressed a button furiously even shouting for orderlies and attendants. They came, assessed the mess, both on the dirty body of the man and also the dirtying excrement of the floor. They carried away Dr Andrew Lanes, who pretty much looked catatonic.

“Oh, you stupid boy!” Wernicke went and backhanded Daryl, who looked pretty surprised. And wide-eyed he looked completely flabbergasted as Wernicke slapped him three more times, making him lose his balance, and making Slicestorm catch his host with incredible care. “I told you…” Wernicke growled, “I told you not to fuck him up so much!”

Slice playfully nibbled Daryl’s long bangs. Daryl got up, holding his reddened cheek, “I am sorry Dad.”

“You are becoming too bratty Darian!” Wernicke called out making Daryl _or_ Darian, his _true_ name, look up a bit uneasily. “You should know how to execute a good enough torture that does not involve anything beyond specifications.”

“You haven’t called me that in a long time. Or, no one has.” Daryl, or Darian, looked a bit happy, “I thought it was a bit forgotten.”

“As it sometimes should be, good boy.” Wernicke went near him again, gestured Slicestorm to move away with his hand, and touched Daryl’s cheek, the abused one, “You know ‘Slicestorm’ is just a codename, an extended code name.”

“I didn’t want to use my Walrider’s true name at times, not in front of things like Dr Andrew Lanes…” Darian sounded disgusted, “I like his _other_ name, Habrok, better as well.”

“You mean the name he was sired by…a name as grand as yours…Darian Siegfried Stockblitz Leitner.” Wernicke chuckled, “Come, we should eat…” Wernicke gave a call from his office LAN lines, and just a curt order was enough to be known what he wanted, “I believe you are hungry after so dedicatedly correcting Dr Lanes of his misdemeanours.”

“Sure, I hope it’s turkey.” Darian made a joke, a private one, for his own private humour, in his mind he looked at Slicestorm or Habrok, his Walrider, and made mental notes on not going ‘cold turkey’ when he was around.

“It could be very well be a hearty steak…and chicken…I had them cater a miniature-buffet so that you can get your teeth into many things. Torture should not be your singular passion.” Wernicke addressed this by sensing that Darian is humouring himself a bit. After all he wasn’t “dad” without knowing some of his “son’s” antics. So, he humoured him anyway, making a lesson out of it too. Wernicke was the old smart-ass timer practitioner of some anachronistic pedagogy.

“Come on Habrok.” Darian called.

The Walrider just stared.

“We are going to eat.”

It still stared.

“Uh, Slice, your actual name is Habrok. You do remember that right?” Darian, or Daryl, came and caressed the skeletal jaw.

Suddenly, it seemed a light bulb blew up in Slicestorm, as he brought his viscous black tongue and panted in acknowledgment: “Yeah, Yes…me Habrok…”

“God, such an incompetent terror.” Wernicke looked bored at the interactions. “Come before I die or worse that thing grows a brain, actually shows it is made of technology and not a Palaeolithic artefact, because the food will go cold before it does anything intelligent.”

“Don’t be tough on him Dad.” Darian smiled a bit as Habrok looked ashamed, “He did help me torture Andrew Lanes. He is a good boy…he did well…”

“You are too pampering of him…” Wernicke chastised then raised his eyes, “I wonder what else he did well as a ‘ good boy’ I truly do.”

The Walrider actually swarmed and left the room via the ventilation shafts out of embarrassment. Darian looked at him, “You just had to tease him.”

“And you just had to fuck him?’ Wernicke stared at him, in his old face was a mixture of something perverse but also amusing.

“Habrok, Slicestorm, is mine. I can do with him as I wish.” Darian said this a bit hard. Though it wasn’t assigning subservience it did had a clicking tongue of possessiveness.

“As you wish.” Wernicke moved forward with his advanced wheelchair.

“You know…” Darian plainly spoke, “You remind me of the weird grandpa from Princess Bride too.”

“No, I bet he could be my grandson.” Wernicke laughed.

The dining room should house two seats. It instead houses four seats. On one corner of the room, fixing his crisp, nicely warm pressed, with an after-tint of starched shirt, greyish blue soft, is Jeremy Blaire. The shirt is casual-formal with polka dots blending in. The pants are grey. They are cotton, fresh and nicely tugging his body. Jeremy is in a mosaic of small, but well placed bandages. His composure is one of perfect neutrality: professional, predictable formidability with a practised air of attention. However, he does break into a genuine smirk seeing Wernicke and his protégée arrive.

“This Darian…or shall I say Daryl, nevermind,” Wernicke laughed a bit, “Is Jeremy Blaire.” Continuing their introductions as they shook hands, “He was one of the people in charge of Mount Massive Asylum. And due to his efforts we were partly able to quarantine the place the way we wanted to.”

“I see you did a bang-up job.” Darian smiled as he did damage assessment of Jeremy, with their handshake over.

“Well, yeah, banging it up usually gets the job done.” Jeremy complimented the joke. They measured each other obviously, still would. But the shared humour lightened the air of suspicious agendas and egos, and allowed the food to be centre stage once more.

“This Jeremy, is the person I never mentioned…for good reasons…” Wernicke smiled, “This is Darian Siegfried Stockblitz Leitner. His father was a good friend of mine. And he is one of our toughest and fully functional agents. And purveyors of the Murkoff Corporation. Let’s say he also owns a bit of the company. Is with what would you say the ‘in-crowd’ so to speak. ”

Jeremy assessed Darian’s build. True he was slender, a bit thin, but muscles were not amateurish on him. The potency of him being a high-class Murkoff agent was not a non-probability. Though, was he really _that_ good? The question echoed in Blaire’s mind. And he _was_ also Jeremy’s _boss_ in a way? For he was part of the elites of elites who ran Murkoff.

“Oh, you do not need to look _only_ at his physique.” Wernicke emphasised as he predictably pursued what Jeremy thought, “Let’s say his next actions will be quite telling.”

It began with a whistle. A soft tune. As though a song.

It palpitated in the air or _something_ palpitated with it.

Jeremy Blaire head an all too familiar hissing noise. Hungry, wild, eager to kill.

His breath almost stuck in his throat as he wanted to run for it.

A dark, inky swarm with crimson accents swarmed around Darian and soon as he outstretched one of his arms — it was taken lovingly by a larger, long jawed Walrider with red eyes and larger, sharper limbs. “Allow me to introduce you to Habrok, or Slicestorm, he is my daemon of choice.”

“It’s a Walrider.” Jeremy blinked.

“Precisely, and not our rouge XY6, this is XY2, Habrok, he has always been bonded with Darian or Daryl as he sometimes signs his accounts and letters.” Wernicke touched Darian affectionately, sweetly gave a parental squeeze near his arm. “As you can see his Walrider listens to him. An admirable feat won’t you say?”

Jeremy looked a bit flabbergasted then asked, innocuously, “So, there have been successful Walriders.”

“Yes.” Wernicke had a smile almost on his lips, “You did not need to be informed, till now. Your recent actions that showed much dedication to Murkoff has made me _lenient_ in my choices. Not saying you are incompetent good old boy. Just saying, it takes time and patience, to know what someone is like.”

“I know some things already about Mr. Blaire.” Darian teased a bit, stroking his Walrider, “Like your detailed study of one Mr. Waylon Park.”

Jeremy looked a bit aghast. His expression soured a bit. And his features became stony. “Oh, don’t worry.” Darian gave a friendly shake of his head, “I do not care who you are attracted to. I think your focus on him is much better than Andrew Lanes’ ones. More, shall I say, educated, aware? So, I am happy you kept tabs on your affections.”

“Andrew lanes as in Dr Lanes?” As principles dictated Jeremy ignored being a bit surprised. After all he was a bureaucrat and a trained one at that. No Walrider-boy (in his head he called Darian) will see him smarting any bruises after such bits of information handling. Yet, the question was on mark.

“Yes, he is being bathed…he might join us…” Wernicke said this with a bored, offhand expression.

A cleaned Andrew was brought into the neo-ancient dining hall. Andrew gave one look at Walrider XY2 and Darian and the rich, steaming European food of assorted potato cutlets, green lettuce and onion salads with pomegranate mixed in, and some dry cabbage with the beef steak and portions of lamb, with sweet potato curry and some half-open dumpling sort of arrangements but with Eurocentric ruffles as a medieval nightshirt — and vomited out his guts. Andrew also defecated again too.

The good doctor was removed. Another batch of scented candles lit. There was no traces of the incident except the nauseated look on Jeremy Blaire’s face.

“Well, the good doctor is not so good at keeping himself clean. All that sanitation training gone to waste.” Wernicke snickered, in complete bad taste, however, he was malicious, he was had some sadism nor else he wouldn’t have been able to be a renowned, elite ex-Nazi.

“So,” as they sat down, with the butlers bringing in cream-pea soup with a slight helping of shrimp, Darian took a sip of the hot appetiser and looked at Jeremy with a grin, “What interesting factoids can you tell me about Waylon Park?”

Jeremy looked at Habrok stuffing individual butter packets and steamy loaves and a couple of dumplings inside his mouth. It seemed he was able to eat the edible. Though the nanomachines had a harder time mimicking ATP systems. As a result, Habrok regurgitated what he ate a bit. Earning the cold eye of Wernicke. Making him curiously pick up his regurgitation and swallow them again and go a bit further away dumping some of the content into the waste-basket. And eating some successfully.

“If you know me so well, you already know what I think.” Jeremy was smooth, “Why ask me anyway?”

“Because it is good to get a personal account from the personality itself.” Darian smiled. Jeremy cringed as the use of “it” as a selectable pronoun selected for him to which Darian said, “I mean that will all the literary technical symbolism respect of course.”

“It appears aside some facts and a hard-on of a calcified leg-bone trapped on the mud Andrew cannot sustain a suitable information index on Mr. Waylon Park.” Wernicke drank his drink with a heartiness, liquid-gold in colour, “Perhaps, you would kindly help us with the schematics required Jeremy.”

Jeremy knew it was a rhetorical question but he nodded anyway. Looking around the dining hall he noticed the murals were all German, Scandinavian or Austrian in nature with knight suits and Viking armour. That the chandelier was actually lit with olden wood and archaic candles. The entire style was invocative of folklores and mythology.

“Your place is pretty neo-classical, in the easy use of the term.” Jeremy commented as he drank and finished his soup, “Beautiful décor.”

“Yes, Dad structured it to look as a Valhallaesque place.” Darian petted his returned Walrider who now had seemingly also washed his hands (as they were wet) and was feeding his host soup and bread.

“Uh, Valhalla?” Jeremy cocked his brow, “You mean Vikings…?”

“And Valkyries. We are warriors of science and questionable myths. So why not have what even Arthur wanted to mimic, a roundtable of warriors…” Darian raised his glass, hiss yellow drink like amber, “Enjoy the mead Jeremy.”

 

* * *

 

Eddie Gluskin saw the embrace. And embraces. And something in him snapped. He punched the steering wheel. Good thing he missed the horn a few times nor else their attention would surely come towards him.

Darling was hugging that guy. Waylon, Darling was. No, he couldn’t choose someone else so easily. Waylon was supposed to be — in his arms. It was obvious to Eddie that he was beginning to like Waylon. Of course he did, but now more so as just him. Not as a makeover woman.

Waylon was telling him about kisses. Waylon had challenged him. Stood up to him. It was powerful and it reminded him of the rush he felt when he beat up his incestuous fucks of family. Waylon could understand him. Surely, he would right?

Well, Waylon told him about kisses so he should say other things right? I mean he has to know other things right?

Eddie was furious. Seeing the brunette hug Waylon so easily. While Waylon ran away from him on every turn. Well, yeah, that time was different. But he longed an easy proximity with Waylon Park.

_I am so much better built and looking than you_ , Eddie sneered at Miles Upshur, _My hair is darker and if he wants blue eyes my eyes were also pretty. Women and men both have said it looks like crystal water…you fuck, you are touching…him…fuck…_

Eddie had been following the quadrat of people all this time. At one point he almost lost them as they went into a suspicious building. Then the Twins had come out clothed and looked cleaner than he ever saw them in during recreation. Waylon and Miles also looked clean and well adjusted. Eddie looked at Waylon; the skin clearer, the jawline and cheekbones glowed. _Beautiful…_ was the only word he could address as he saw dark-chestnut hair akin to thick caramel frame a bit of his face.

It was good they didn’t know he was following them. Eddie knew he might have to talk to Waylon, alone. See that Miles and the pretty good threats the Brothers did not interfere with the conversation. He was a bit mad at Waylon but his rage was not so much as his willingness to be curious, inquisitive, to ask him questions…for Eddie felt Waylon knew answers he needed.

But that embrace really did a number on him.

It his mind Eddie imagined holding Waylon like that. Tight, secure, their arms firmer than any rope, or any coercion could produce. The sweetness of his breath near his ear and neck, the poetry of his  throat moving, the windpipe a mechanical flute of untamed but skilled melodious tinkering with sighs and gentleness. His own arms fluttered and fit as secure as two silken butterflies. The nodes and crooks of their necks intertwined in that sweet holding. Eddie would murmur beautiful things in his ear and Waylon would surely smile. Then Waylon too would whisper, on how to kiss and know of deeper embraces.

Eddie’s breath was caught in the fantasy. And he felt…and looked as Miles and the Walrider had been in that moment.

Spellbound.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Emily Dickinson poem is from poetry foundation. Please comment! PLEASE! EVEN IF YOU HATE THE FIC! Your comments and kudos keep this alive! See ya soon guys!


	6. Lodge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter in which Miles and Waylon and co get a bit used to the lulling newness of another life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think my other chapters were pretty gargantuan. Maybe, I will make a shorter chapters. I don't know. Quicker updates but shorter chapters may be better. I really need to know if anyone can tell me what is best for you guys. It would be helpful, thanks.

 

**Lodge**

 

Park and Upshur were not at odds. However, they had no idea what they were _supposed_ to be _doing_ now.

Actually, Upshur knew that he was supposed to be training. Training an edifice of patience to have over the Walrider. Or, rather have the Walrider _also_ have patience with him. Wallie had been once bonded to Billy and Billy Hope had been well, for the lack of better words, angry, insanity seeping in, losing control. Generating enough dark energy that made cultists pretty damn happy for, hell, hath no fury like a Walrider chaotic (teasing old sayings); such pretty sights and sites, could ditch any ritualistic bullshit.

Billy was really fucked up. Reading the medical reports was bad. Billy was a bit different from the other Variants or patients because he made that extra jump, that extra _kick_ , as in he had a tolerance to the Morphogenic engine that resulted in lateral ascension ultimately. But Wernicke had called him a “poor idiot” and…he really got angry…no, it wasn’t the Walrider’s anger. It was _his_. It was wrong to fuck up an already fucked up kid like Billy. Miles remembered how Billy was nineteen or eighteen when he was admitted to Mount Massive Asylum. How Wernicke said he had potential. Is that what people were to him, to Murkoff and all their affiliates? POTENTIALS. Fuck them sideways.

 _“Don’t get so angry.”_ Walrider said soothingly, _“It won’t help either you or me.”_ Then sweetly, _“There is too much open space here. It isn’t like maze…maze…maze…tight cells…like the asylum…is this normal?”_

 _Yeah, this is what homes are supposed to be like_ , Miles smiled a bit. _You don’t like it?_ This was said a bit later with a hint of concern. The Walrider could get aggressive when agitated or bored or frustrated. Miles had felt it a bit.

 _“I might take some time getting used to it.”_ Wallie said, _“I am not sure what I am supposed to do here.”_

 _WE can learn to be on our best behaviour_ , Miles stressed, _Look, I don’t know what I am supposed to do either. I used to be an investigative journalist but this is going way beyond stuff I thought I would do. And even if I take political asylum in another country and work, which I had prepared for as I made a lot of people unhappy previously, I can’t right away._

The Walrider was silent, for a minute or so, then said the most unexpected thing, or rather not so soon expected, _“Do we have to leave Waylon as well?”_

Miles did not know how to respond. Non-verbally, body linguistically, he tightened a bit…a stricture in a muscle here and there. But he did maintain some stoicism, some professionalism, a taciturnity that was something journalism at times favoured. _Maybe. I mean there is a good probability —_

 _“But why?!”_ Wallie almost yelped, _“It’s not fair! We are…we like him…”_

 _That’s the thing Wallie,_ Miles looked a bit upset, _Waylon is too good a guy. What if we accidentally hurt him like in a really bad way? I can’t really…I mean it would be really bad and it would be just utterly wrong. I really can’t handle hurting him._

Wallie blinked a bit, diffused a bit, then rasped, angry, dissatisfied: _“This is one of the first times I am hating myself.”_

Miles was surprised but then said bleakly, _Yeah, I…am pretty much in the same position._

 _“Why should you be?”_ Wallie looked a bit quizzically and annoyed, _“You are not like death. You have your own body and stuff.”_

 _I think we can safely say that as long as you are in me, I am not having the privilege of having my own body,_ Miles scowled a bit.

 _“So everything is my fault.”_ Wallie snarled, his eyes, grey getting a bit more intense.

 _Yeah, it kinda is okay Wallie_ , Miles pointed out.

_“Fuck you Upshur”_

Miles blinked, _What?_

 _“I said, Fuck you Miles Upshur.”_   Wallie trembled in his inky blot jets of fluid of a body, _“You and your human arrogance!”_

Miles looked at him, in his mind’s eye, _Look, I am not gonna be sweet with you just because we share a body. I am no pushover. That’s why you **chose** me right? Listen, I do apologise for my coldness but I didn’t ask for any of this…_

 _“Like I did?”_ Wallie raised his brow, _“I didn’t wish to be a nano-parasite thing that I am it wouldn’t be  my first choice Miles.”_

Miles sighed, _Look, I am sorry, I am just tired._

 _“I guess you wanted to be some sort of cool hero right? Investigating and exposing Murkoff. There is nothing heroic about this basically, from what I understand from the essence of human heroism.”_ Wallie gently stated this. Miles realised that his Walrider was tired too. This new _house_. The new _host_ thing. So many _new_ feelings to manage. In some private corner of his mind he knew that it would be wrong to just dismiss the attitudes and emotions of his symbiotic phantom.

“Not exactly. I know it wouldn’t pan out fully like that.” Miles confessed, “I am just well, I don’t know what purpose I can have for you. And me. But mostly you. I don’t know if you can do things aside damaging stuff and killing.” These words were spoken out loud.

 _“Well, I am doing things aside killing. Like talking.”_ Wallie said the obvious and sounded a bit insulted. Miles realised this.

“Yeah, but, what else can we do? Can you do? You were kinda thinking that a few moments ago yourself.”

_“Yeah but I wasn’t really saying all I can do is kill. I didn’t think that needed further explanation.”_

Miles got a bit annoyed, but understood the precarious sort of frustration he put his Walrider through, all this time except that triggering incident at the diner, which was catalysed by his _own_ feelings, Wallie hadn’t hurt a hair or diffused into a swarm of angry locusts readying to hurt, plunder flesh, destroy or kill — yes, maybe he was _better_ host but Wallie deserved credit. And yeah, well, he did also give him and Waylon blowjobs…that wasn’t…so…well, it was a gesture towards something akin to friendship. “You are right. I am sorry I am being a dick. I am just putting my own fucked up ness on you. That’s wrong.”

Wallie examined the apology, with a look of earnestness and fondness, _“Miles, you are a strong hearted person. And thank you for the apology. I am frustrated too. And scared.”_

“What are you scared of?” Miles asked nicely.

 _“New surroundings and well…too much open space gives me static-shocks at times. I am not used to such wideness. Such wilderness of spaces. I am bounded and bonded to a host which is a space I can manage and…just too much…to…understand…”_ Wallie looked defeated, _“I am sad.”_

Miles then said aloud again, “We can manage this together don’t worry.”

“Miles.” That soft voice echoed out. Made dimensions softer but also defined.

Miles and the Walrider ears got alert instantly. Miles had been perched near a window in the living room, the carpets were tasteful and artistic, and there was only a small lamp illuminating the surroundings. The window was slight cracked, a breeze fluttered here and there and he heard leaves of canopying trees. They were miles away from Mount Massive and also in a heaving woodland sort of country-county. The wild was a sanctuary now.

“Miles, are…are you okay?”

 _Waylon_ , Miles and Walrider said it together.

“Can I come in?”

“Of course, Waylon.”

“I am sorry…” Waylon slowly entered, “I heard you talking…I was hoping you weren’t _really_ losing it…” Waylon said this worriedly, a bit frightened, “I mean this is a lot of pressure and though you are not really alone…” Waylon saw Wallie materialise a bit, “I just wanted to see if you are okay.”

Miles looked a bit tense, “I am not going insane.” He was bit rough on those words.

Waylon looked down, “I am sorry.”

Miles exhaled, “Fuck I am on edge. I am being a dick to you. Dick to the Walrider.” The animosity, the energy palpitated, and Wallie was seduced by it as well, “Fuck…oh fuck…”

“Miles!” Waylon just ran and hugged him and then shakily blurt out, “I bet you are hungry! I made some nice pasta with both white and red sauce!”

The radiating anger subsided and superseding it was a terrorising agony in his guts. Food was needed; Miles realised that he was avoiding eating a lot and he and his symbiotic companion was hungry as fuck. “I am hungry. Loads.” 

The dinner table was quiet. The Twins ate happily. The lights were not bright. The windows were slightly open. There was the scurrying of paws, a wolf howl, or two and the beautiful scent of leaves, midnight dew and the cicadas called with the crickets slightly. A small light aura was out, fireflies and all luminescence creatures like them bathing in the stage of night-time. The Twins savoured the white and red sauce, the pasta, they gave a small burp here and there.

It was Miles you ravaged the food. Spilling it a bit. He was just too…hungry…no starved…and tired…and…Miles suddenly slouched in the chair…. _snoring_ …And Waylon grabbed him…it was total wipe-out.

The Twins looked a bit amused. But they didn’t say anything. They ate quietly, slowly, savouring the richness of the salts, sauce blend, the cheese and cream within, pure good quality milk on the white and exquisite tomatoes and chilli essences of the red — a dinner for champions to which till today they could not truly have savoured. Their childhoods had canned foods, burnt foods or scraps…they ate mac and cheese, spaghetti but loose quality and…well veggies were to be known as the cheapest cabbages. They had slightly dug into cannibalism due to the lacking of feeling human. They have had chocolate cake but well none of the foods of the asylum was pretty appetising much. The foods in the asylum were coded to be “mellow” and “soporific” and “dull in colour and quality” — no excesses just plain hardcore nutrition. No creativity. The tomato soup also lacked the thickness of red. It had been battered down with many salts and other condiments not really needed.

This food was a classical, tongue, palate and gut nirvana.

Also Waylon knew how to make good pastas. The delicacy of the layers of pasta, the herbs blended and the goat’s cheese also melted into white gold. The aroma mattered as much in the weight and scales. Waylon preferred that dinner in pastaville was a day in court or a walk in the woods: charged and thrilling with the filling.

The Twins did not really know the heads and tails of compliments. But they did say to Waylon, as he was carefully picking up a knocked out Miles, that the food was the best they had eaten in their lives. Waylon blushed but said they will probably, hopefully eat better meals, cooked by professionals. That is when Tom said that this would always be a personal experience for he had respected them as _human beings_ and respected them in a way that only a certain _intimacy_ could cook, so to phrase. Tim then added that the close quarters, the ambience of the woods made this a beautiful memory. An experience to write in their marrows. Waylon was touched. Smiling, he asked if they wanted to sleep in their room. They offered to help pick Miles but Waylon said he could manage but then quickly said that’s all as they gave a smile that could be summed up as licentiousness.

There safe house was quite grand. It seemed to be some wealthy person’s lodge to vacation in. They had around five bedrooms upstairs, a medium sized dining room, a good enough living room and two studies with their own little libraries. There was also terraces upstairs, a nice porch or foyer that overlooked a wide cluster of trees that oversaw a moderate sized lake. There was also a small gazebo. Waylon had to admit that though it may be temporary it was beautiful and spacious with all the qualities that made living indoors or reclusiveness tolerable. The quintessential cabin by the woods.

The Twins took the smallest room by the end of a hallway. It was still quite close to two larger rooms so Waylon did not say anything about them choosing that particular area. The comfort of routine to small spaces was presumably in place because that room had least furniture but had two single beds. It was designed for children. Waylon from the corner of his eye, while hoisting Miles up, saw the Twins adjoin the beds, which were sturdy and big for single beds, and lay on them horizontally. Well, they went stark naked too. Threw their clothes everywhere. Waylon chuckled at the cosiness and honest simplicity of their actions.

Putting Miles in the larger room would have been prudently polite. But then he remembered hearing the Walrider be a bit nervous and twitchy in too much wide spaces. Waylon debilitated for a moment and decided the larger room was not so bad: a good training exercise and also if Miles did surge power bursts he would have a good enough radius to not make things burn and blot like the Walrider’s signature inky body. Waylon carefully opened Miles brown jacket; he had decided to wear it since the asylum. Not really taking it off. Maybe, a keepsake?  Or, from someone long ago. Waylon realised that it made Miles keep also the mounting and shifted knowledge of identity in check. Waylon had looked at Miles’s jeep and had pocketed the ID card he had as well. They were still using the same vehicle though their VIRAlinks contact, Julian, had pretty much told them there was paint in their cabin so they should well, recolour the thing _sooner_ than sooner can seem.

Waylon took off Miles’s shoes, his socks and carefully put them down beside the bed. There was a bit of sweaty smell but Waylon ignored it. Waylon just unbuckled the belt a bit so that there was no constraining feeling on his abdomen at night. But he did this nervously, his hands lingering a bit longer and he swallowed a lump. He put the comforter on Miles and saw him hardly budge. Wallie was probably knocked out too. There was a slight singing of static and the small hiss but Waylon could sense something was at rest. _Well,_ Waylon smiled _, it’s good to not have the Walrider walloping around all the time_ , giggling a bit at his strange alliteration choices. Waylon went and somewhat opened the window; the air outside was cool and there was a distant sound of rain. _Maybe, Miles likes petrichor as much as I do_ , Waylon mused and turned around hoping to make little noise.

As he reached for the door there was a sudden _hand_ accompanying his! And he felt a hand on his mouth as he was held tight, in a partial embrace, while he struggled a bit he heard the familiar voice:

“Darling.”

Waylon’s blood went a bit cold. But the he furiously turned to look at Eddie Gluskin; his face red and swollen, the wounds looked a bit _better_ , healed, but the scarring and the angry way flesh was exposed contrasted heavily against Eddie’s expression. The contours relaxed, not mechanical, not maniacal as the first time he saw him in the dark with the night vision on: all teeth wide in some weird fucked up Jack-o-Lantern style —just relaxed and not tensed. Waylon realised that all of these chasing and crap were pretty much a bit of habit for Eddie, the misandristic-misogynistic serial killer. Yet Waylon also firmly placed his hand of Eddie’s hand; then tightened his grip. Waylon was telling to Eddie pretty much that he was in for a fight.

“Or, shall I say, Waylon Park?”

Eddie slowly told his name, carefully as though holding a valuable piece of a gem-jigsaw puzzle. Waylon looked a bit surprised but his hand was still tightly gripping Eddie’s. Then his eyes burned angrily as Eddie smiled a bit, looking easy, almost _normal_ with his gaze:

“Waylon, I wanna talk with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was that chapter — ended in a cliffhanger. Few of the next chapters might be a bit slow. Also, thanks for the support. If there is anything you guys are not liking I would very much like to know. I am actually researching stuff for this fic, I am not a math expert or literature expert or myth expert but I do want the story and attitudes to have some credibility. I really want this project to explore philosophies, ideologies, myths and stuff. I want it to be large, long body of work. This is because I think Outlast is a game that has made a good enough base for it. So, I want to help extend the game's universe. So, your frank comments would really help me and further this endeavour. If you don't wanna comment please by all means email but I do seriously need some feedback, constructive criticism and all because it is encouraging and helps me write but also makes me learn too. If you wanna just ask questions that's fine too. See ya next time guys :D


	7. Observations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Waylon and Eddie have their own heart to heart. A long chapter

 

**Observations**

There was actually a soft song on some radio, it was probably 60s, yeah the song was by Nick Drake, and it had to be his famous love-song _Time has told me_.

Eddie wiped the blood, the stinging, from his lips, were…a few moments ago Waylon Park, a man he thought timid, had successfully head-butted him, drawing pain both on his nose (which was partly splintered) and mouth. Eddie had responded with a punch, that half-hit Waylon. However, it seemed their previous history coupled with more honed survival skills, with his ability to learn things at a suitably, quick rate had made Waylon more formidable than the man some days ago in Mount Massive Asylum.

The aggressive nature, no— the **adrenalized** nature, with some fluid coordination Waylon had enacted amazed Eddie Gluskin, who at one point seeing the sinews bend so easily amongst the stratifications of his body made him realise something: _Darling does have amazing bone structure…_ it may not have been the right time but thoughts were like that.

It was true Eddie was muscular, more ripped and larger than Waylon Park whose build was lithe, acrobatic and slender with the toned frame. Yet Eddie was not as agile or even tactile as Waylon. Which surprised him. It should have been evident from before but Eddie was too hypnotised by his prejudicial angers and opinions to comprehend the thing. Of all the people in the asylum he had hunted with his animalistic, killer-criminal modus operandi it was Waylon who dodged, skirted, hid and sprinted more capably than anyone else. Obviously, his sanity was intact but that should have made it scarier as he knew that a seasoned murderer was after him. Waylon knew how to hide, how to run, he was actually more conscious than he himself knew. Truth was he had been “the math geek” before the outbreak of the Walrider. No circumstances had really presented himself to utilise these sorts of faculties he had. After all modern sports usually preferred power over such flexibility and Waylon, being a bit shy, had not also participated in athletic activities.

Eddie wasn’t slow though.  Eddie had jabbed the side of Waylon. Waylon recovered easily and got up tall and to the complete counter-expectations of Eddie, grabbed him unawares, pushed him against the wall and kneed his guts a couple of times leaving the latter breathless and bruised. It was obvious. Waylon was mad. Though he could scream and call The Twins he wanted to also put in his own hits. Eddie understood something else: he somewhat underestimated Mr. Waylon Park and also there was more to this man. This, despite his hurting, excited him. So, was he to know of “kisses” as intense and unpredictable as this?

Though momentarily lapsed Eddie pushed Waylon away who backtracked and hit a cupboard but swerved as elegantly away as though he was finishing the touches on a proof or theorem. Waylon’s hand were clenched. Ready. Eddie just smiled.

“I wanna talk.” Eddie looked at the heavy breathing of Waylon, his lips a bit redder, Eddie was a bit uncomfortable because Waylon had attracting lips, for him at least, “Look, Waylon, I just wanna talk.”

Waylon didn’t know what was worse: being called “Darling” or Eddie calling him his real name. It sounded funny. Eddie usually had called him “Darling” either in a sing-song voice or an angry voice and once nervously when he was about to get partly impaled by the protruding metal beam of his gymnasium of fuck. This “Waylon” way sounded soft, normal. It was just so unheard of from Eddie. Waylon was obviously highly suspect of Eddie. Not to mention he was worried. Why was Eddie here? If he is calling him “Waylon” than surely he knows that he isn’t a woman, nor a candidate for that butcher-shop, but was he intent on it? But then should he be calling him “Waylon” treating him as a _person_? Not an object, not a “darling” but _another_ person _as_ him? Things were getting _confusing_. Too confusing. This wasn’t a+b=c this was now a c2=√a2+b2 from what he understood. That did bring its fears but Waylon decided that he was gonna fight. A part of him also wanted to prove to Miles that he could do a miscellaneous number of things aside just talking and trying to support him. After all Miles was doing the reverse; that guy had a good amount of skills (including or non-including Walrider such as a tough exterior and endurance) and was trying to prove that he could talk and articulate strength in a way that was emotionally non-detached.

It was safe to say both were making remarkable progress in both of their learning curves.

“Talk about what?” Waylon stressed, “You say a lot of bullshit and my dick _ain’t_ coming off.” The last part was hoarse and serious, “I am _not_ a girl, not a girl you want like dad or mom. I am my _own_ man.”

“Yes.” Eddie nodded. Seeing that anger and determination in making him see him as him. For some reason, it hurt Eddie. Eddie was realising that he was doing what was done to him:  his identity had once been overlooked, almost erased, made insignificant by rape and abuse. All this time, he had mimicking the abuse done to him. Yet, he was becoming crueller; he had attacked and mutilated the bodies, the people. This epiphany almost made Eddie puke.

“Nothing I have is _vulgar_. I am inexcusably _me_.” Waylon gritted his teeth, his mouth potent with anger, with a hardness as though he was biting into iron, “I am me. I am male. I am a man. I am a husband. I am a father. I have two boys. I am Waylon Park, not darling, not slut, not whore, no liar, no flirt, I am me. I am a software programmer and I am a **man** of my _own_ sort.” Then Waylon lashed out a bit sternly, “You can’t feminise me in any way. You won’t and can’t. What you think of me I really don’t give a shit too. But if you think I am gonna just let you chop off my manhood I will eradicate your manhood before you reach _mine_. It’s mine. I am gonna **keep** it.”

Eddie was a bit surprised. There was anger but no condescension. Waylon had also said he was a man and referred to his maleness, his masculinity, his manhood. Waylon was not belittling him or changing him into something he wasn’t. Eddie felt a bit humbled, a bit annoyed because Waylon was not as him. Waylon did not attempt to murder identity or coax one. He was also so sure about his _own_ identity. Wait — Waylon had children, a wife…all Eddie wanted. Yet, he was not dangling that in front of Eddie and going “nah, nah, nah, nah.” This caused Eddie jealousy, envy, admiration, fury but most all it was somewhat teaching.

A man must acknowledge what needs to be acknowledged. Eddie had been doing the exact antithesis of that.

His contradictory feelings were hot fire synapses in his head; bringing heavy shocks and shots in his spine and heart. So, _this_ was Waylon Park. The man was a _darling_. But not the one he thought was a darling. This was rather a new education.

“Yes, you are _not_ vulgar.” Eddie now confessed, the admittance was painful more than the metal bar that stabbed inside his abdomen, yet, he did it, for the sake of his ownself and the sake of a future uncompromised by his pasts, “You are perfect in who and what you are. You are not diseased. You are a healthy man. With healthy thoughts. I need that _health_. I need to know it. Not…” he added as he saw Waylon’s eyes become acute as though Eddie was a threat, “Not…in the way I did…I haven’t gotten anything from what I did…I liked doing it because I was not…I was not capable…I did not know…what could I do except murder.” Eddie struggled with this, but then his voice was not altogether hesitant, it was rather to the point, “Look Waylon, you made me feel something distinct. I can’t put my finger on it so…can we just talk a bit…”

“Well, as you once told me, the incision will hurt, so will the conception as birthing is never easy.” Waylon smirked in a way that wasn’t fully malicious, or mocking but was heavy on discipline.

Eddie swallowed. His mouth became more dry and tight. To be fed his own words in such a way. How fates, karma — Oh God, truth was indeed a stranger entity than any fiction could even conceive.

“But, I am not like you.” This was said with such conviction that made Eddie become a bit deadpan in annoyance, “I do know that pain is natural but so is giving someone a relaxant. What do you wanna talk about?” Then adding quickly, “We can go to the other room.” Waylon looked at the deeply sleeping Miles and worried a bit. So much had happened and though the noises were not so loud, they were loud enough, stronger than the scuffling of mice as men do have larger quarrels. This indicated that Miles truly was tired. I have to check on his vitals later, Waylon looked a bit then turned to Eddie behaving neutral, Oh God, I hope it is nothing serious.

“Sure.” Eddie had noticed the sort of care, though stealthy, that Waylon was giving Miles. But he did not really feel much rage or jealousy. Rather he felt a sound melancholy reach his throat and go to his heart and echo in his head while also making some trips near his stomach. Oh, how he wished Waylon tended to him like that. “Whichever place you prefer.”

Waylon could have sworn that there was a subtle smirk to that last sentence. If it was a double entendre of weird timings, fuck, he would ignore it.

And yeah, it kind of was, Eddie couldn’t resist. The sense of care he saw in Waylon for Miles made him feel he must be more straightforward. After all, it didn’t matter that Waylon was male. It didn’t matter how many kids he had or what kind of wife he had. Waylon was…still was… _his_ darling. This wasn’t really the possessiveness he had psychotically displayed when he was chasing after Waylon. Waylon was this darling he hadn’t totally encountered before. He wanted to taste the concept of it in his mouth for do we not get a sense like that? A neural link as well. Something about Waylon, after he had snapped out of it  a bit more (nothing like Waylon waxing life philosophies and him getting impaled almost to death would help), from the Morphogenic nightmare, seemed to appeal and stay. The term darling would obviously expand. Waylon was this person who made the word darling relevant. This is what Eddie thought now. Though he wasn’t sure if it was entirely sexual, romantic, friendship or platonic or all those qualities. This is where feelings got a bit tricky.

After all when he was supposed to be exploring the tantamount, paramount and subtle nuances of emotions he was pretty much told to fucking take a detour and stop being a human being. All his protests, pleadings and preferences were rejected as though he was a marketing tool rather a human being. He was consumed cheaply, cruelly and coarsely as though he was nothing but butcher’s apron leather. All his bleeding and hurting, as if his guts were not guts but sore channels that only knew raw, uncensored pain. Even today, in his frame of muscle and his non-flinching armour, he hated going to the bathroom to even wash his face.

Bathrooms, with their indiscriminately white tiles and clean spaces taunted him. Because bathroom were made presentable, cared of and they looked cleaner than him. A human knows a damage is extensive and wedged right between the molecules when inanimate places look better than the person you are supposed to be. Yet, he hadn’t lost hope to reclaim what he had lost.

That’s why he was here.

Well, he was getting more than a reclamation. This was something of an _evolution_. Wasn’t it? The limbs and arches of muscles, the spasm of the heart, the wandering eyes and the focused peripherals of the brain detected it. Knew it. Owned it. For this was a few times he felt he had an ownership of himself. Of what he wanted to do and what he wanted to learn.  

Yet Eddie was tired. He wasn’t a young man as Waylon. He was forty-six years old. Forty-six and had already lived a lifetime. Should he be still doing this? Trying to figure out life and all that...? Frankly, a part of him had wanted to do all that shit because it was the only reality that had comforted him. It was the only reality he knew. Did it excuse him?...Before Mount Massive Asylum had come along no one had really made relevant interviews of him. And no one in particular had treated him as a person. Not doctors, not teachers, not friends and certainly not biological connections. Eddie refused the word “family” because he never knew that and “friendship.” 

As Waylon and he had a moment of just staring. Not sure. Not tense. Just confused.

Eddie made a move, being gentlemanly had seemed to be in his character and chivalric door opening would be one — well, except that when he did open the door a larger man grabbed him lifted him up and another man, of almost the same size, held a machete. They were ready to carve him as turkey.

“No! Guys!” Waylon rushed to his aid, “Don’t kill him!”

“I seen you, or heard of you…” Tim looked at a scared Eddie Gluskin, “Your clothes, you look like a groom.”

“I heard of a crazy bastard that cuts off your dick.” Tom said, “He was called a groom. Looking for a bride.”

“We ain’t no brides here funny man.” Tim smiled mischievously, “As for lack of penis, we _can_ do that for you _too_.”

“We got blade.”

“We well hung already ourselves.” Tim chuckled making Eddie look down a bit and cringe.

The Twins were comfortable in nakedness. Eddie was the opposite. The more garments around he was happy. After all to The Twins nudity meant a casual viscera, a casual point of embraces, a casual meter between innocence and experience. To Eddie the exposure of flesh was raw and unbridled deprivation of sense, reality and also the open hell of lust and squalor. To him flesh had no innocence nor experience. Only static. This would have contrasted deeply with father Martin’s beliefs of static and all that. Considering that to him god was static and that flesh needed to be discarded to reach that god Walrider of his. Well, the formula had the wrong variables because it was both Billy’s flesh and non-flesh (psyche) that made the Walrider. So, Martin needed revisions. Not to mention the Walrider was a storm, a phantasm, not a deity. 

“Guys.” Waylon put his parental tone to good use and The Twins heeded. They dropped Eddie who got up immediately and wiped off dirt and the feeling of being close to strange men. “Can you stand outside and guard Miles?” Waylon knew this was risky but…what choice did he have? Miles was too out of it and he feared for his safety. “I need to talk to Mr. Eddie Gluskin here.” There was no way that sobriquet of Groom was gonna be told repeatedly here; that should stay buried and dead at the asylum, “If I need you I will definitely call for you.”  

The Twins nodded almost in unison but they gave their suspicious look to Eddie. It was clearly accentuated that they did trust Miles and Waylon as a group. They may truly have no ill-feelings for them. The protectiveness was appreciated. Waylon hoped it would be used to defend Miles if need be.

Waylon took Eddie to the far corner of upstairs. A good vantage point for many ideas running through his head. The rood had good space; a small quarter less in length when compared to the room Miles was in. But this was made it up with furnishings; there were reproductions of some famous paintings. In one side near the window of the south end of the room, next to the bathroom door, was Van Gogh’s last painting. A field of crows and autumn wheat bushels. Then there was Marilyn Munroe’s prints by Andy Warhol and _The Son of Man_ by Rene Magritte.

The two prominent pictures juxtaposed with each other, eerily so, with a discordant touch, was the _The Birth of Venus_ by Sandro Botticelli and _The Scream_ by Edvard Munch.

Those two had such dissimilar themes and atmosphere that it made Waylon shiver with an odd feeling in his stomach and spine which also swerved around his heart. Yet _mathematically_ , a presence perversely sound came around to it. Botticelli’s piece was from 1486 and Munch’s piece was from 1893. They were four centuries apart. Gluskin had lived four decades of his life with a Venus in his mind but a Scream surrounding her and him.

That weird, strange almost poetic juxtaposition made him have a waking nightmare. How odd was the spatial way that fates collided and colluded. It beat the clicks of spirometry in some chessboard of pistons and levers.

Eddie also looked at the pictures. A bit carelessly. The room smelled nice. He was aware he smelled rotten. Days of not going to get a shower or a bath. And this makeshift suit was tattering with its fine threads, which he had sewn, going out of place. Eddie cringed. A part of him wanted to preserve this suit, another part clearly wanted to stuff this into a dustbin and burn it. Which way he would choose he had no clue at the moment and decided not to over-think on it either.

There were two armchairs in the room as well with a nice wood and glass coffee tables. Everything in the environs bled to emphasise comfort, I have to thank Julian, even if this was for a little while, Waylon thought yet obviously there was no coffee nor comfort as he was having a conversation with Eddie Gluskin. Had no idea if that guy could do anything but monologue.

Waylon carefully went and sat in one chair and motioned Eddie to sit in the other. Eddie actually waited and Waylon appreciated that. They did not have that bridge of friendship or familiarity so any sudden movements would mean trouble. Waylon still kept alert. His posture was not calm nor nervous. Just a bit stiff but aware enough to well break the vase on the coffee table and use the shards if need be.

Eddie looked at Waylon, “I am glad you look healthy darling.”

Waylon allowed the word because it was not with that malicious intent as before. Though, with all known reasons, he did not enjoy it being used. This new way bordered scepticism because it was coherent, plain but also a bit caring.

“Your wounds look healed.” Waylon said a normal exchange, “I didn’t expect much after an iron rod went right out you…but you managed to care for yourself even post-Morphogenic engine you could take care of your bruises.” But Waylon had noticed that despite his new fluidity of motion Eddie looked a bit tired and weakened, (though Waylon could protect himself from Eddie now either way as his aim was to fight whereas before it was more running away), when he had knocked Eddie with his head he had seen Eddie instinctively also grab his abdomen because there was still a coarse bruise there, “I can see though you are tired and…hungry…” the last part was a bit gentler.

“Hunger for food I can withstand.” Eddie said it a bit too fast but he smiled slightly as Waylon had given, it felt, an indirect compliment as it was more observation, “So, you said to me I was not a good man. Because I knew no true ‘love’ — what is this true ‘love’? I am always trying to get a girl to settle down with…”

“Look Eddie, here is the thing.” Waylon was very surprised. Eddie Gluskin wanted relationship advice. At a time like…okay, maybe to him this sort of thing is pretty much normal but Waylon decided to say something, “You talk about  a girl as though she is something non-real as in an object. You can want marriage but you know right you need the right kind of person…the right person who also wants a family with you.”

“Monologue?” Eddie questioned, his eyebrow a bit raised with the eye, mouth a bit agape. Waylon looked at his agape face and thought of the word “Agape”: In Greek it was the celebrated love of friendship that correspond with platonic love. Agape had the side meaning of being forgiving and compassionate. How these then subtextual-like went to a mouth slightly open was a mystery. But maybe it has to do with that  “forgive me I did not get you” and you were one not to be an arrogant prick and make fun of another person’s inability to understand the topic or you. Well, that is what Lisa had said once when he had opened his mouth all along listening to her talk about this. Late high school and early university had been where his philosophical education had truly began.

“Yes, well…” Waylon knew that he had to break this slowly and responsibly, for both their sakes, “You kinda ramble on…” seeing his blank expression continued, “About having babies and filling emptiness I seriously did not understand where you got these clichéd love quotes from but they were annoying as fuck.”

Eddie looked a bit taken back, “They are clichéd…?”

“Well, yeah.”  Waylon looked at him, and then laughed softly, not mockingly but almost _instructively_ , “You should listen to how you talked about me too back there. You wanted to cut my penis to welcome your seed, I mean that is pretty fucked up.” Waylon blanched as Eddie looked at him, not offended but a bit annoyed at the ease at showing repulsion, but was listening attentively nevertheless, “Listen Eddie, why would you even refer your seamen _exclusively_ as _seed_ got to me. I mean, I understand the relevance of sperm in reproduction but…you really, _really_ implied that. And then you wanted to rip my nonexistent _womb_ out. You said that exclusively too. Is that what men and women are to you, reproduction machines alone and _only_?”

Eddie tilted his neck. “Well, isn’t it the aim of most species to reproduce and die?”  Eddie then emphatically stated, “Scientifically even unicellular bacteria are designed for some form of reproduction. Most species have sex and well they make legacies and die. Why should I be any different?”

Waylon thought it wasn’t a bad answer. However, it lacked feeling, passion and an independent psychology: “That is a good observation. An astute one. Full of also _extra_ bullshit.”

Eddie looked a bit angry but Waylon was undeterred. “If it is so bullshit _why_ do you have a family? Easy for you to say that as you already have a legacy.”

“No, I didn’t just fuck to make a legacy. I made love. I wanted love for more than a legacy even if all men and women want a legacy to various degrees and various ways.”  Waylon accentuated, keeping his  posture calm, Eddie looked a bit edgy, but his hands were clasped in front, Waylon too had that stance but with more decided firmness than aggravation, “I married Lisa because I loved her a lot and because she was the right person to do all those things with. I wouldn’t have if she wasn’t. After that true love was accessed without hypocrisy the _legacy_ came afterwards _naturally_. I didn’t have to chase someone all over the vocational block of an asylum to do that. See, you are experimenting as the doctors where on you, you made really neurotic artificial grounds to choose someone. I do not think you should have made such rules for yourself and just stick to them.”

“There are rules for mating Waylon.” Eddie gestured evidently, “Even you should know that.”

“Look, I know there are rules but they are flexible given people, circumstances and contexts I mean you can’t just generate rules in some odd vacuum.” Waylon really stared at Eddie now that Eddie actually got a bit panicky breathed, which was a total reverse of what happened in the vocational block when Waylon in distress got into a broken locker and was caught, “And humans do more than mate. One of the specialties of the human race is that.”

“Well some humans would have their perverse specialties and not even give a rat’s ass about entrees or desserts or anything.” Eddie gritted his teeth and snarled. Waylon remembered that whilst he was incarcerated in the locker Eddie had also made this expression saying he wanted to be the father he never had and then he said he wanted nothing ever to happen to his children and he drifted precariously over the statement “not like.” At that time even he wondered what this man meant. Then he saw the file. Eddie was sexually abused. And Waylon knew that had helped in creating Eddie’s own monstrosities.

Waylon approached the subject with a bit of caution, slowly he mouthed: “Are you talking about your father…and your uncle…?”

Eddie looked up quickly a shocked expression on his face. His fingers tightened and his knuckles whitened under the brace of pressure. “How do you…?”

“I picked up a file, your file, when I jumped out after that time… it said…you were…there were…photos…that…” Waylon was finding hard to select the best phrases for this thing, “I didn’t see anything image related but…the file said they abused you…”

Eddie gnarled his mouth, growled a bit low. Waylon watched, something told him it was not totally deadly. Eddie then snarled and showed teeth, “All that file said was ‘abuse’ what a nice little cosy term to put around what I fucking went through!”

Waylon got a bit back but then gave a concerned expression. With a quietness that skirted between whispering and pronounced links to words he asked: “They…raped…you, didn’t they?”

Eddie looked down. Shame was scarring his face more so than some bullshit engine could. Then slowly a tear and two, “Dad said it was what it meant to be in love. I didn’t _feel_ love. And my uncle kept me around till I was seventeen. The first time I had sex with a girl I was so rough with her. Because…” the tears were starting to trail a bit more down, “Because I forgot it hurt. I thought that was what people do. Fuck, I didn’t know there was a thing called hymen back then. Because I knew only _holes_ and I knew holes bleed, anus or mouth or even penis-hole. I did not think well… it was a big deal…or maybe I did just was so desensitised to it _myself_ …” Then Eddie angrily banged his fists on the table making Waylon jump out of his seat, “I was just a fuck for them! A fuck!  A stupid fuck!”

And Eddie started crying: howling crying. And sobbing and holding himself. Rocking to and fro.

Waylon would have held him but… he did remember that in Eddie’s files that Eddie did _do_ and _say_ what he _thought_ was _wanted_ from him. However, something about this particular incident did not seem well, _trained_ , _rehearsed_ , it _looked_ real and _felt_ real.

Still with gentle caution and prudence Waylon went and put a hand on Eddie. Eddie shivered slightly as though he was sceptical himself. As though nostalgia made him think where and whose hand this was. Then feeling less tensed he remembered that he was with Waylon Park and not his abusers. So, with a bit of hesitance, he settled down…was a bit foreign to him. Spilling out his guts, the figuratively visceral way, and have someone hold him. It didn’t feel as sterilised as a doctor’s therapy scalpels. It felt real, warm, and had that ambient tenderness he so wanted from life; hungered after it through valleys, crevices, recesses of rocks and canyons, even the depths of ravines…not oceans because oceans were far away and life needed to be nearer than leagues and leagues of foam, plankton, mosses and other variables.

Eddie did not embrace back at first. His heart fluttered between some convex-concave butterfly effects. Where each surge of blood metamorphosed cells, tissues and lymph nodes sand of immunity against psychoticism. To an untrained person, a person not organic in feeling embraces were tautological. They lacked depths and even surface of rhizomes because they were just a mimicry of an action already initiated or in the process of initiating. Eddie had not known much about embraces; he knew about _holding onto dear life_ but not embraces that _can_ have that but wasn’t _only_ that.

Eddie decided to learn a bit from imitation; he drew his hands around the back of the smooth, slender yet masculine-muscular neck of Waylon Park and slowly went down…with one hand to the middle of the back. The scent was sweet yet not cloyed and the back was that of a swan’s symmetrical neck, curves in the lovely space and ridges and slopes in a beautiful measurement. But there was a felineness to this back too. It quacked and bended that of a tiger, or lion or a cat on ledges — a natural tenacity for adrenalin yet knew how to be grounded. Like air mixing with air. Eddie slowly touched Waylon’s hair, the bristles so lovely, the tangles thick yet also well cut. Eddie envied this messy yet silky locks as he had the tendency to not like hair on his head. The scent was a bit fresh water that ran through glades and forests — no it wasn’t this hinterland alone it was a natural disposition of Waylon. But he also smelled a bit oceanic, a bit of sand running on glassy surfaces and water. An hourglass of strange elements. And that was a bit of an intoxication: both sexual and platonic. Eddie carefully crooned his own face and made it perch on Eddie’s neck. The beauty of the anatomical apple there as it wobbled with breaths reminding him of knitting gloves for winter or some pockets. All this olfactory and visual memory was making him have this hypnotic slumber sort of feeling as though it was more than safe to sleep in his arms.

Waylon felt Eddie’s breath. He smelled awful. On the surface at least. The first impact of scents were mixed with dirt, blood, sweat and rust. There was also a smell of rotten metal near his own wider neck where the gulping apple trembled as though something unnatural would make it suffocate. Yet underneath there was a relaxation. A tempo that reminded him of laundry, of bedsheets in summer pressed by the sun and licking clouds itching to be known intimately. A hardness of of mattresses mixed with wools both native and foreign. There was an interplay between night and day but it sizzled and simmered as bathtub water in a cool place. Each nerve nicely adorned on his hands, Waylon felt, like thread. Waylon realised Eddie had great motor skills. With is a both blessing and curse given what he went through: as the synapses could connect faster, polish motor memory infinitely quicker. Waylon had to train a bit for the same thing as his hands were the most tactile of his anatomy from the start. The slopes of Eddie were pretty well postured: Eddie had a figure and stance that complimented a fusion of styles — ballet, kick-boxing, painting and sculptor models, soldiers in attention and funambulists — this plethora of movement aesthetics was simple amazing. It was a sort of body that mannequins would mimic when displaying their fabric wares. Underneath all this exterior of pain and uncleanliness was a polishing sheen somewhere. In some ways it was like seeing under coals a form of diamond. Yet because of the over-pressure of unmindful miners and shifting of earth in wrong ways this diamond had lost its natural grace, it’s natural edges and edginess and has become flat with only singular murder as its spirit.

The crying became sobbing once more. The stretch of tears became watery embers. Eddie quietened. Eddie almost was half-asleep.

“You know there is an animal that doesn’t mate but has been around for eons…” Waylon suddenly blurted, realising it was a bit strange but felt really relevant, “It is called a bdelloid rotifer and it is microscopic and pretty much celibate.”

Eddie looked at his face a bit. Waylon realised that an inch was the shortest distant between a kiss and a head-butting. Yet, Eddie did neither. They both felt each other breaths on their lips but as Waylon realised Lisa was right: sometimes he was a bit too literal and conventionally a to b point logic thinking. “And?” the slow, soft voice looked interested.

“In the book _Sex on Earth_ by Jules Howard there was a hypothesis presented that was pretty awesome.” Waylon’s eyes lit up, the passion that sparked made Eddie look a bit affectionately with a small smile at his corners, “Rotifers may just use the genetic material of other animals to combine with themselves. So, they _could_ be doing a weird version of inter-species _mating_ thing without _mating_.”

Eddie blinked, “That is actually interesting but…”  he tilted his head, if someone walked into the room they might have thought the two were kissing with some inflamed and watery goodness, “What does _that_ have to do with _anything_?”

“Well, you are doing the opposite of that even…” Waylon just blinked and said, “You cannot homogenize the parts of others; you are biological incapable yet you were also tearing down people to try to do something with them.” Waylon bit his lips a bit as Eddie’s eyes widened, “You are tripping out over even a unicellular organism…which exceeded beyond your methods in the design department. So, yeah your credo needs a revision.”

Eddie stared in complete awe. It wasn’t meant to be an insult. It wasn’t really programmed as one. Eddie could pretty much see it as one. But, it was more like…more like saying as he is capable of having sex, normally, without all that baggage that the rotifers go through why was he complicating his own biological imperatives by being a dick to himself and other men and women?  Why was he murdering people, especially at one time women, left right and centre when he could just wait for an opportune moment to meet the best person for him?

Eddie then blinked. And went like, “Yeah, I need to look at some things don’t I?”

Waylon all this time was seeing Eddie’s confusion.  His answer brought a slight smile, “You should help yourself. After all I can help you but…you need to know _you_ can and _need_ to do it too.” 

Eddie then did something.  A bit unexpectedly but a bit understandably. He kissed Waylon’s forehead, “You know you are a natural parent. I envy your sons so much.”

Waylon felt the softness and fullness and fleshiness of his lips as they lightly lifted and captured his forehead. The praise afterwards was enough to cause a blush.

Eddie then put his head near Waylon’s chest.  Heard his rhythmic hear beat. A slow moving poem in the effigies of his heart and hearing. Waylon had him still embraced and then saw that all this time their conversation happened in the metric unit of embraces. Should he be embarrassed or embrace that fact (wordplay, playful love or _Ludus_ to be exact in Greek love terminologies)? Maybe acceptance of this comfort is not bad. For a moment he had forgotten his near-death-of-dick experience and just went with a natural response of being communicative and _kind_.

If there was a skill in kindness Waylon was surely exceling in it.

Eddie after a few seconds had fallen asleep in his arms.

Waylon heard the breathing, a bit hoarse but mostly quiet and coherently in loops of the involuntary lungs welcoming dreams.

Waylon hoisted Eddie up, I think I am tucking people into bed a lot tonight, Waylon snickered, What I am a matron of a nursery?

Carefully he put Eddie on the bed and loosened his bow-tie and put on his comforter over. Nothing more. Reaching and unclasping his belt was an act of peaceable communication that still needed work and time. Also given Eddie’s sexual history with its abuses and all touching below the belt was not an act that may seem prudent. Who knows he might actually be more alert to that region of his body even in sleep.

Remembering Eddie’s look of seeming famished Waylon quietly crept out of the kitchen and heated the leftover pasta then walking back upstairs put it near the dresser next to his bed with a spoon and napkin. Waylon preferred that Eddie ate. He also preferred Eddie didn’t roam around unsupervised because well…Eddie was still an anomaly. Not The Twins weren’t but…Waylon and Miles has had more time with them to know enough that they were interested at this point to stay and eat with the lodge experience.

Waylon then got outside.

At this point he saw in the shadows of the hallway one of The Twins looking at him. Not in any nefarious way. As he approached him he saw it was Tom, “Waylon, should you be feeding him?”

“I don’t know.” Waylon honestly answered, “I guess I am just being polite.”

“You don’t have to.” Tom ushered, with a soft caring on his face, easing the roughness, “He is not an invited guest. Rather he is rude.”

“I do wonder how he got in.” Waylon asked.

“Could be the backdoor it was unfortunately unlocked.” But Tom smiled, “I have eliminated that problem. Made a broken plank also hoist as a bar.”

Waylon smiled appreciatively and nodded, “How is Miles?”

“Still sleeping…” Tim came, “You can check on him…”

The Twins knew they were not fully trusted. But seeing Waylon and Miles and past events it was understandable and they were not really offended. Waylon acknowledged them with another smile, “You guys better go to sleep.”

“We will keep our doors unlocked.” Tim said, “Slightly open. That groom better not fucking try anything. We can slide a knife under the navel too.”

Waylon recollected that odd poem about Eddie’s activities. Written repeatedly as though it was copied from _The Shining_ movie. Rather, he think the patient who wrote that was inspired by the movie’s stylistics when producing that.

“Sure.” Waylon nodded again and just went to check on Miles.

The sound of rain made its way to the room. Miles was sleeping as a beauty under a spell of a spinning wheel. That analogy made Waylon a bit uncomfortable as well…Eddie was a tailor of sorts…Waylon checked Miles’s forehead and saw that he was cold  a bit but breathing nicely in normal beats.

As he found this satisfactory Waylon went outside but locked the room from in the inside. The locks of this lodge were heavy and it fit well. Waylon had the only set of keys so it was not a bother. The doors were sturdy enough and made noises if shifted out of proportion. So, Miles had all the auditory alarms in place.

Waylon then went to the adjacent room. Locked it and switched on the lights. His room was as spacious as Miles with similar décor. There were paintings in his room, however, that were nicely arranged.

On one wall was Van Gogh’s _Starry night_ pictures, not close to each other. In sequences of odds with the evens between them were two slices of Leonid Afrenov’s  bluish-red doused with amber accents nights titled _First Snow_ and _Romantical Love_. One with a couple and the other just great detail of not a couple but of the tree leaves that looked like sails and at the other end was Van Gogh’s Café Terrace at Night. The images cascaded and made a narrative of themselves. Waylon was loving the contrasts of blues, blacks reds and oranges. He knew Van Gogh’s famous paintings but the Afrenov works were once introduced to him by Lisa.

It would be nice to walk in those pictures. To just walk actually in places like those pictures. Maybe Miles wouldn’t mind…would Eddie…want? Waylon’s thoughts came, they didn’t surprise him, because he was worried about Miles and Eddie seemed like the romantic type under all that other rubbish, I know Lisa would have said “yes” immediately…

Waylon thought back to walking hand in hand with Lisa in those university days. Then he thought of Miles hands…nicely around his… if they walked alongside trees and underneath them…Miles looked like a sort of guy who wouldn’t say much but grip his hand firmly…but a sudden statement here and there would be made. They would both be quiet. At one step they might stop and Waylon may comment on trees but Miles would say something like how the place is also made nice with him. Would he? Waylon though he was a guy who could say that. Though the timining needed to be there…why would Miles say that about him though? Waylon wanted to laugh. Wasn’t he a bit too geeky? And being a bit too mushy…

Waylon propped open a window and suddenly a charge of lightning flashed making him step back. As though the clouds palpiated by the electricity of his thoughts.

Rain licked windows and bathed in the solidness of glass. It looked so pure and pretty that Waylon wished he could morph into raindrop.

Then he took off his clothes.

Only hugging him were his boxers.

And soon with the blankets pushed aside and he settled  in…falling asleep to the humming songs of rain and clouds…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it for now. Miles will be returning next time with Walrider goodness...


	8. Accoutrements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very long chapter. Very GRAPHIC MATERIAL and some disturbing stuff. Enjoy the read :)

 

** Accoutrements  **

 

“Helen Granat.” Came the voice silky yet a bit insultingly, “Are you unhappy that the egress of Rudolf G. Wernicke did not happen as you imagined it would?”

Helen was a tall woman, with blue-grey eyes, platinum blonde hair. She wore suit-pants and had long hair that she had kept open. She looked a bit androgynous and a bit eccentric, which, she probably was to all extents. She was one of heads of litigation of Murkoff Corporation. Though formally attired her look and her posture suggested a casualness that did compliment the way she was. Stoic yet eagerly methodical. Like her verbal opponent in front of her she was all shades of grey. Which meant that reading her was not an _easy_ task.

“Darian, you lack the quality to divine that my coalitions and communications are made for the _benefit_ of the **project**.” Helen folded her arms, a dry smile on her blue painted lips, “Whether Mr. Wernicke stays or leaves is not really the council’s concerns. If he can be useful as he doing at the moment no one will question him as drastically again as such.”

Darian looked at her with a bit of revulsion, “I don’t understand how you can ignore Dad so much!” Then his Walrider slashed at a nearby desk, pushing a long scythe like blade that used to be five-fingered talons into the leg of a security guard who screamed bloody murder. Helen looked bored at the chaos that ensued; the blood splattered on the walls like some odd mixtures of paint with similar lead coagulations. She smiled. Though it was blood and the open wound smelled a ripeness that only convoluted flesh can put on she look like she _liked_ the _smell_. That hard, sharp yet softly pastel portrait of blood. Darian withheld looking at anything else, to him observations became anomalies in his script when he prioritised a certain focus: he was emotional and sentimental and coldly logical — all qualities that made him and did not contradict him at all. These were a set of disturbed minds and dangerous people and only one worthy of sympathy the security guard knew that as he tore his shirt and tried to capsize his own bleeding. For Ms. Granat did not look so perturbed at his bleeding _profusely_ all over. “Dad is _dad_! How can you betray him?!” Darian screamed, “You filthy, piece of — urgh whoring yourself to the highest bidder!”

“Says the incestuous boy.” Helen giggled as even Habrok was close to her baring his teeth and dual-scythe hands crisscrossing her neck, explicating showing how his codename was ‘Slicestorm’. It was a bit of a terrifying concept and action that Helen looked unscathed by Walrider and looked more scathed by Darian’s fury,  “I mean seriously he is not really your _father_. And you don’t even have the same relationship. If you wanna purify the putrid, make sacred your acts of profane, your directions are still so parallel-oedipal I do not know if to say you are a master of odd sexual accoutrements or just a weird, perverted fuck.”

Habrok stop snarling and looked distress. That was because his own host was distressed, wide-eyed and penetrably fearful of the words uttered by Helen, then he snarled as his Walrider got behind him and became a more placated swarm: “ _Father_ and _Dad_ are two different people. Dad cannot _replace_ Father…” then a bit more quietly, “I knew that all along.”

Helen chuckled, “Oh dear, what a predicament.”

“It’s not a predicament it was predicted from the start.” Darian snarled some more, his voice was a ligature on his own throat, he knew that protocols dismissed any attempts he would make on Helen’s life, and that she too, without a Walrider, was a formidable as fuck opponent, “I just don’t understand your betrayal to our Dad that’s all!” Darian looked pretty unhappy and disappointed at Helen Granat as he desperately did want to understand all her reasons for this betrayal which his only summation was that her avarice got the best of her, though the biting teeth in him, the one that partly knew Helen Granat. Knew she was not a greedy bitch alone, that her greed and machinations on said-feeling was not as directional proportional to financial gains as was the case with Jeremy Blaire who mostly did take the route (well mostly observed though it could be safely said that Blaire did have deeper dimensions too). He really, truly wanted to know.

And one should be a bit careful at times what they wished for.

In a moment, Helen was close to him, she dashed so fast that even Daryl’s Walrider had to blink to see her in from of them and shriek a bit out of confusion and fear as Helen grabbed harshly Darian’s throat, “Daryl, Daryl, _Daryl_ , _sweet_ Daryl-Darian…” she twisted a bit causing Darian to actually raise his hands and slap her but she seems unfazed with her huge grin and soft eyes. Habrok struggled between saving his love by slashing and listening to Daryl’s commands that Helen cannot easily be maimed or killed. His love was in trouble!

So the red-eyed Walrider screamed in utter frustration and then did the next best thing, grabbed her hands too. Jets of blood, bits of claw-scratches became prominent in her neat, manicured hands, Helen did not even flinch but looked at her blood, slowly fostered in lines and crosshatch patterns as a crimson shadow of her veins underneath and looked marvelled. Then she smiled at the condemning glance of Habrok or Slicestorm then continued her interactions, “You think with a loyalty that only befits a court jester and you gesture it,” laughing at her own wordplay as her grip tightened making Habrok imitate it and dig in a bit deeper, the veins of blood dripped and mingled also with Daryl’s silver hair with black accents, flared the colours of his locks as a virginal chalice, “Do you find me so stupid as you?” Then pushing him slightly as Habrok let go of her and went to Darian’s side as he coughed a bit. “You are mistakenly analogising _love_ and _intelligence_ ; they are not _always_ the _same_ thing. The Crypt-Keeper…” Helen chuckled at Wernicke’s label, “Was too enamoured by the tomb that is or _was_ Billy Hope.” Then she smiled as she saw her own hands drenched in blood, “Are we going to just stay on one singular partial success when three lucid dreamers exist? I find that reductionist way of thinking the crisis of the Nazi method of doing things.”

Darian did not seem to pay attention much. Yet, he did get Helen. To him she was being a total asshole who only wanted to make progresses in the Walrider project. To Daryl his dad was more important. Though at one time he did think his father was his entirety. Dad was not really that. Dad couldn’t compare. It was this lack of similarity that made the precursor to replication impossible for him made him think that Wernicke could have used the egress. Helen was slightly like his father only more selfish. And those calculations mattered. Darian looked at his hair and touched the stains and cringed. Habrok all this while cooed and soothingly caressed his love for the Walrider was relieved that nothing had happened to him.

“But Billy Hope made a lateral ascension possible.” Darian defended, demanded some counter-logic on the grounds of suitable bloodstained evidences, “Dad had been wise and scientific to actually study him and give him relevance!” the word ‘scientific’ was accentuated as Helen was pretty much a scientist and to insult her forte was to insult her altar of significance.

“Not really a total success as you saw our fugitive Miles Upshur was a more tactile and dynamic host.” Helen said this calmly as she went near the security guard’s desk and took some tissues out, first few were already blood-splattered so she threw them lightly at the guard while telling him, “Go to an infirmary you are getting blood everywhere from your scratch. Go now or I will give you something to bleed about.”  Making the guard hobble fast away with fear evident in his body language and face (it was already a bitch working with Walriders and her attitude made it feel he was in some burning purgatory). “You should not only focus on experiments partially successful. Look what Billy did to Mount Massive Asylum…” Helen ‘tsked’ as she chronologically and nonchalantly threw one blood-soaked tissue after another and giggled, “Look, Darian, your Habrok gave me hand-menses…” And laughed at the perverse, misogynist joke and Darian stared…for she was a _woman_ so…it felt bizarrely non-corresponding, “As I was saying..” she pressed some tissues into her hand finally and smirked, “Lucid dreamers may very well be _another_ step to fully integrated lateral ascension and I would have  preferred if you also look into it.  Just because XY2 is a success doesn’t mean you shouldn’t aim to improve. How unscientific is that. Wernicke also demands progresses and charts of new activity does he not?”  

The question was rhetorical. It slapped Darian’s head, mentally stumbling, and made him almost tremble as he remembered all the conversations of both the past and recently where Wernicke had _fully_ insulted the intelligence and capabilities of Slicestorm. To Rudolf Wernicke Habrok was a partial success _too_ or rather a bit _lesser_. Which was the _one_ Daryl pondered and at times he knew that even if it was a variable answer based on subsets of subtextual actions of Habrok he was afraid to even ask himself to get an _answer_. Because Darian knew that Wernicke did not only want an efficient killing machine. Comparatively, Habrok was the better murderer than Mount Massive’s XY6. That was incontestable. Habrok also was given the nickname Slicestorm for that. That was incontrovertible. But Habrok was happy in his madness, thrilling lust to kill so he didn’t make a hierarchy system of needs as much as an individual or a proficient Walrider was theorised to somewhat enact. Darian did not care much not that he wasn’t also independently interested it was just that he felt Slicestorm had already mastered torturing and killing, by the books, a model student on those things. As a responsible parent of sorts he didn’t want to overburden him and was giving him time to get the other things sorted out. Of course, time is sequentially dominant in science-hourglass as it takes on money and models of experiments. To research time almost becomes scalar because they needed to measure adequate success. And Habrok had gone from “adequate success” to some halls of obsolescence and redundancy. This obviously pissed off Darian Stockblitz.

“I am bonded with a Walrider and I can still _physically_ see and I am not scarred or shit.” Darian, after his momentary annoyance with the vulpine looks of Helen looking gleeful, stressed on the situation, “What does these ‘lucid dreamers’ possess that is so basically the out-shit?”

“Gardner’s theory of multiple intelligences states not everyone copes the same right?” Helen giggled, “You are lucky you still have your cute, the Japanese word for it is, what is it? Oh yeah bishounen, bishie or was it shouta? Well, you still have those looks on you.” Then Helen became a bit more stoical, a seriousness in her air indicated that her ongoing research was a grand cause to her present, “Lucid dreaming allows hosts your capabilities but may also couple that they need not really be bodily active or have bodies active to use Walrider type creatures. This is good as Billy had been too damaged after a point that his Walrider jumped hosts, a rare ascension, yet I guess one expected on parasitic poltergeists. However, Billy’s body was slowly dying from the inside. It was only a matter of time till the cellular decomposition would materialise on his flesh…These lucid dreamers are scarred but cellular degeneration has stopped after a peak point and now added exposures or catalysts do not at all actually hurt them. They are prone to violent tantrums and outburst so chemical and physical restraints are necessary most of the times. Besides, just because they can’t seem to see doesn’t mean they can’t.”

“What does that mean?” Darian looked interested. This literature was appealing to him. It was good to know about potential co-workers. Or, rather, potential rivals/opponents/obstacles to be gotten rid of.

“In my initial reports I did mention that they were blind; now ‘blindness’ is a state that encompasses many meanings and layers. Of course, there is the literal biological association and to humans this is usually associated with the eyes or the neural links or the brain. Then of course there are cataracts and all those growths that make the eye lose its buoyancy in sight. But blindness does not subtract awareness, it may simply mean a loss of visual formation and acuity. With our lucid dreamers both are not the case.” Helen smiled with a sense of triumph, the circumnavigation to delightful to ignore, “For the thrill of analogous pairings let me just say that the morphology of their awareness and even sight has somewhat shifted. It is true that their eyes are nude now of a visible pupil, iris or anything that suggests the classical anatomies of sight. But I think that too is just a mutation still in process.”

“You are not telling me everything.” Darian looked a bit suspicious. It was that gleeful glint in her eye, her voice, her calm unmoving yet clasped hands, as though they contained a storm, and his usual understanding of Helen Granat that exemplified something was amiss.

“Now dear Daryl-Daryl…” Helen looked at him with a cute face that croaked condescension. She had thrown her blood tainted tissues on the desk of the guard. As though his station didn’t really matter either, “You must be a bit patient after all do not be so accustomed to getting everything at the same time.”

“I seriously think you are making me miss something.” Darian hid his irritation, and his tempting temper at this fox of smooth words, clicking fingers and tongues, there could be a sexual gradient amongst them but that attraction would be more ‘rough-sex’ and rampant bullying mutually done of each other as respect between them was a bit thin. Daryl was a romantically charged person (as he analysed about themselves) and Helen was asymptomatic of those things unless something pornographic or erotic presented itself. To Daryl his own twisted love was important. To Helen full-love cannot happen with the body as sex was meant to punish the concept. Both of them bound by the straightjackets of their own volitions, interests and ideologies. Both pampered too by the perverse successes of them. After all the sort of people they were and the way they had been juxtaposed this sort of playground suited them well enough.

“Fine,” Helen smiled, with a reassuring gesture also in her clasped hands, as she moved forward with a tilt of acknowledgment, “Maybe, a little bit more can’t hurt Daryl-Daryl…let’s say even the scarring may heal with a little bit of willpower and plastic surgery…”

Darian looked aghast a bit, “Should we doing such procedures on such experiments…?” With an incited pose he launched, “They are not part of our internal networks we don’t need to be that nice to them anyway. Unless they have proven themselves in the field and made the missions reach an equanimity.”

“I don’t think this should concern you Daryl-Daryl.” Helen became less smiling and more stiff-lipped and taciturn, with a cool edge, “You are not a ‘lucid dreamer’ model so your prerequisites and your accolades and your whatevers is _not_ the model control for this thing. Stop pushing your tongue into the cunts and cocks that don’t want your wet dreams or oral.”

With that Helen exited via the long white hallways of the research area and entered into the brown and red colours of an office area. The hallway was longer here and each wall housed a door which opened into individual offices. The word individuality was important here as the names of doctors, scientists and interns, even copy-writers flagged each mahogany sheet with blue and gold writing. No _experiments_ here. This was the den with the _people_ with utilisable minds.

The lights in the hallway all had a filament touch. The ember light mimicked solar material and bathed the person with a feeling of rest and relaxation after the wide, white, sterile lights of the research area. At the far right she reached an area with the name Danielle Austen and opened it. In the office was a  young woman, aged around eighteen to twenty-five presumably, typing on a typewriter and also writing notes alongside punching data into a computer  that was customised with butterflies, purple unicorns and black elves with a grim reaper grinning with a scythe.

She had headphones on as well and Helen saw she was listening to over an hour stream of “Nyan Cat” on Youtube. Lifting up the left ear-piece she whispered: “Peak a boo- I have a boo-boo…”

Yelling, she turned around and saw Helen. Then her fear turned into affection as she jumped and kissed, full-on tongue and mouth, to Helen. Helen held her a bit loosely and kissed her back a bit later than approximately should be then again the taciturn woman seemed to be a bit friendlier with her. “Dani, what are you doing?”

But this woman, Danielle, looked at her hands drying of blood, and shrieked, “Oww you got that on my lab coat didn’t you! And how did you get that in the first place!?”

“Daryl-Darian.”  Helen said as though it was the common jargon of such things.

“Oh, that meanie!” Danielle screamed as she went near her desk, took off her headphones, and opened a small hatch on the underneath-right side of her exquisite redwood accommodations, and retrieved a heavier looking first aid box. As she opened some packets of vials also fell down but due to her plastic seals did not break. Helen looked at them with a smile and then Danielle looked embarrassed, “So sue me, they make me feel _good_ so _good_.” She giggled as she somewhat erotically touched her own breast, “How can you say ‘no’ to these sorts of perkiness, no?”  Helen just closed her eyes, neutral and detached from this, but Danielle continued, “Yet your breasts and body.” She touched and fondled one on Helen’s cheat through the silky blue suit fabric, “I would do all the orgies in the world if I could get this sort of body…”

“Just don’t be a user and OD on it.” Helen chuckled, a secret shared by them.

“You know that won’t really happen.” Danielle smiled as she opened Helen’s shirt a bit, looked at the black silk and lacy bra and unsheathed a breast to taste a nipple, sweet pink-purple and got a bit attentive, “This ain’t regular shit, it ain’t cocaine, and it makes me feel _good_.” And then she started sucking on Helen’s breast, salivating and mewing but Helen looked…looked a bit too unfazed. A bit too nonchalant. No real erotic response.

Then there was sound of a backhand as Danielle found herself crashing against her own desk. And clutching her cheek; looking questionably to which Helen ordered: “That’s enough for now Dani baby, you are getting too excited for your own good.” There were other monitors on Danielle’s large desk, some had video-feeds on, one had a woman screaming and clawing out her eyes, another had a dead woman on it whose body was being carried away by female technicians in suits, another had a small pretty woman, a bit like Danielle singing to herself; her wrists were slit, blood pouring down, in a fashion like pipes, “I see that one singing is a bit of a success. She is good enough. She is not dying yet.” Helen looked favourably then disgusted at the corpse being carried away, “Let me guess the false pregnancy hiccup?”

“Yes, the Morphogenic engine may instigate that physiological thing in some women than well…the rush of hunger needed to be thrilled.” Danielle composed herself, her cheek red, hugged Helen from behind, still licking the corners of her exposed nipple and breast, “It was a shame but you know trial runs.”

“Yes. A pity.” Helen pushed Danielle away roughly and she crashed against a file cabinet. Yet she looked a bit happy or whatever the daze she was in…Helen fixed her shirt and suit jacket and adjusted her bra. Then she looked at her drying bloodied hands and after some examination licked some of the blood clean to the exposed cuts, “Could use a bit more iron in my diet…maybe I will eat some pasta later…”

Danielle came and started cleaning and putting cotton daubs on the wound: “I want to cut off Daryl’s dick and fuck his Walrider.”

“The ‘false pregnancy’ actually also happened in some of the males.” Helen ignored Danielle’s statements and mentally did not feel her attentive care on her hands as she looked on with a hand on her chin, pondering, “Some of the males in Mount Massive talked about ‘their babies’ or ‘washing babies’ or ‘key in babies’ — researchers of the literature, one Debra Proto and Michel Washington, had suggested this to be the bifurcation of expression between motherly and fatherly behaviour as expressed by protection and care of family in males and the physiological and at times fatal hormonal false pregnancies in females. For most males fatherhood is determined with being dedicated with protecting the children post-natal; for most females motherhood has begun with the pre-natal sensational affirmations of motherhood. Both types still succumbs to a psychological breakdown nevertheless.” After her deductive assessments she looked at the caged small room next to the desk of Danielle, she heard a sobbing, then she smiled at Danielle who was humming and finishing up putting band aids on Helen, “Let me guess, you are bringing your work a bit closer?”

“Not really.” Danielle bit her tongue and motioned to a sack with basketballs of various sizes protruding out of it, “This one is a survivor. I thought why not, play with him a bit.”

Danielle  got a medium sized regular basketball and burst the grilled door open making the skeletal almost-blind occupant shriek, “Spoilsport!” and she threw the ball at him. It hit the poor Variant right on the face — as blood and snot spilled out and he lay on the floor almost unconscious. Danielle giggled, “He apparently likes playing basketball.”

“Don’t get too much blood in there.” Helen looked bored, “The personnel are busy with other things now.” And she looked as the emaciated Variant with skeletal bones and desiccated skin get up slightly and cradle the ball as though it were his life.

“Sure.” Danielle gave a small laugh.

“You are coming over tonight right?” Helen smiled knowingly, securely, “I mean you are not going to be by yourself.”

Danielle eyes became wide as she lit up, “Are you gonna _spank_ me too? If I come _late_?”

Helen wanted to give a sound of annoyance but decided, diplomatically, to just look away with a smirk, “Maybe. I might not fuck you if you are too late.”

Danielle hugged her very hard and Helen looked at her a bit disinterestedly. There was a call in the phone on Danielle’s desk, Helen took it: “Hello This is Granat.”

“Madam Granat.” A female voice talked elegantly, “I saw you walk into Ms. Austen’s office so I made the call.”

“Go on.”

“Madame, you have…messages from one Roland, Jennifer Roland…” hearing that made Helen lose a bit of her placid look. “Yes, uhmm…she will call back shortly I think…she…as per instructions I gave her all your numbers…”

“Good job Ms. Farre…” Helen acknowledged normally then got rid of Danielle’s embrace and surveyed the recent files on her desk, “Lindsay…” it was a whisper, urgent but evenly placed.

“Yes, Madame Granat.”

“Do not let anyone know that Roland is alive; Wernicke had been eager to know about her whereabouts. She had been the last doctor still alive to write a postmodern report in the research labs underground Mount Massive.”

“I have already made the necessary arrangements. She has an extra key to _your_ apartment.”

“Good.” And then she hung up. Looking at Danielle, “Things are going well I see. You have written something about our ‘lucid dreamers’.” Then as Danielle stood by her she saw the name of one, “Oh, this one of the three has an interesting history and a suave name as well: David Annapurna, huh…”

 

* * *

 

 

Waylon woke up.

Not a scream but a whimper.

His room clothed with light from storm clouds, lightning flashes and penumbras of glass and leaves. In that boxing breadth of sketchy light and darkness he felt a cold sweat. Was he having a form of fever, delirium? Couldn’t say…

Whatever it was he felt nauseas. As though some sort of sea-sickness. Sleep and dreams fluttered here and there. Scurried after him; ran with him— for a moment he saw a strange dream. On Gluskin’s table again as his breath struggled thinking he code not have imagined the programming for a castration equation. And thought about the medieval uses of eunuchs in both Europe, Middle East and China and all over. How the castrated man is a sign of effeminacy though he could theorise that even in those state a castrated man was still man or something he chose to be. The evidence was the South Asian _Hijras_ , a class of third genders who were at times transgender but also not so generically speaking, as he heard about in a dinner double date with Lisa and her best friend, a sociological major with another degree in microbiology.

The dream sequence was strange. In the dream as he panicked. Looking at the buzz saw waiting with full mechanical logocentricity that he is to be crudely feminized and that his maleness will be second-from-previous sex. However, the dream turned really fucking bizarre. Instead of his dick Eddie bashed his own in after suddenly unzipping his pants. In horror he saw Eddie screaming and saying: “Now you can give me the babies! Hahahah! Babies! Babies in me! Babies!”

Waylon shuddered and shivered at the horrific imagery that was in his head. Even though it was a dream…it was fucking scary…

More so now because Waylon had heard Eddie talk about his abuses, his humiliations, his own perceived “feminizations” by his father, uncle and most probably mother too. Waylon had had a healthy enough childhood, comparatively — well, he had image problems throughout his life especially in adolescence; broke partly after getting married. Remembering the bullies with their arsenal of wedgies, wet willies and harassments. Geeky and a shy person so to them he was an easy target.

The school councillor told him that Waylon was a good hearted, good natured human being whose intelligence was quite impressive too. This coupled with his empathetic prowess, made him kind of “perfect.” And that was scary. Scary, to many people. Waylon had meekly replied that he wasn’t perfect that he even recently wet his bed as an accident and sucked his thumb and chewed his nails out of nervousness. Also, he wasn’t perfect because he did say inappropriate things to people at times like that one time he asked a girlfriend in lab class “what was her size?” he meant the diameter of foam in class and she growled at him. Waylon realised that was a double entendre to also know about breasts, boobs, knockers, chest — then Waylon innocuously had looked at her breasts. Small, yet lovely circular things, mathematically a Euclidean principle bounded by non-Euclidean motional symmetry. That was one of the public hardons Waylon had ever had. His half-erect cock was partly looked at the washroom. He blushed and touched it…it bobbed a bit angrily back as though saying “what the fuck you teasing me for…?” it was suddenly that cool, collected attitude that he felt he did not possess but his penis did that made him ejaculate, with a semi-gargantuan orgasm. He clasped his mouth as he felt riding on a rollercoaster only inverse. Inside his body. A moan and a half did escape and he almost collapsed inside the stall. Panting and breathing.

After that day one of his bullies, the jock Pat Posey, who had slammed him against lockers since he was a kid, had looked at him _different_. Pat hardly talked to him except calling him rude nicknames. Once in a minor psych course in high school Path had said one of the psychosomatic disorders was him. And he actually for once gave him a cold, stink-eye. But Pat was being _exceptionally_ distant from him in a way that was not ignoring but a bit… _acknowledging_ …

Then one day….after school…close to his lockers he felt a hand on top…coming around was Posey and he posed as though…like when he was with his girlfriends…and said…so gently…”Hi…”

“Wha…uh…hi…” Waylon clutched his books, nervously, and thought. _Fuck, he wants to beat me up? Why?_

But instead Pat had gotten a bit down, closed his eyes, hypnotically, non-maliciously, spilled his wet saliva and lips on him. Waylon looked shocked and Pat was begging for an entrance…and Waylon quietly opened and a bit forcefully, but not roughly, Pat eased in his tongue. The moans he gave were…hungry…as though…Waylon made a noise between surprise and strangeness…it was not his first kiss…not the first tongued one…he wasn’t really enjoying it much as Pat held him a bit unevenly and Waylon was not really attracted…to him…his ex-kissers…both female had…well one had gyrated on his lap making him almost cum…she was popular girl…and she gave a naughty look as though he was her secret crush…and then she didn’t say much on it and Waylon deciphered it was just makeout. The first kiss was by a girl who had to leave school. It started chaste with just lips touching but intensely and then both of them opened their mouths, at almost at the same time, got into tongue deep and afterwards they chuckled a bit but then embraced and sleep an afternoon together. Not making love or sex just sleeping aside each other. Well, they did kind of touch each other and give each other cute, amateur orals.

At seventeen Waylon was still a virgin. Would be until he got into university.

Pat started embracing Waylon and slowly lifted his loose shirt and Waylon gave a “hmm” and suddenly Pat lightly squeezed his nipples and stroked his chest and then went a bit down and rubbed at his member. Making Waylon purr a bit. “Fuck Park.” Pat eased a bit between kisses, “Your body, fuck, it’s so, oh fuck…you are so sexy…” Waylon almost bit on their tongues in surprise. Him? _Sexy_? “You make me hard you know that.” Pat almost cried as he nibbled his lips and soon trailed a neat, less wet, kisses down his neck, “I fucking…I _fucking_ wanna _fuck_ you _bad…_ always _have_ …”

“What…what…wait…” Waylon slightly pushed and Pat respected the gesture, “You _hate_ me…you always have _this_ …” Waylon pushed aside him roughly now, “You always treat me like shit…” Then with both rage and almost feeling sick he punched the jock, right on the corner of his mouth, “I am not a joke Posey! This was a mistake!”

But Pat grabbed him. “Yeah, I know, it’s not a joke.” It was an urgency in a whisper, “I have always liked you.” Ruffling his hair, “You know…” kissing his neck again, “I watch you at times. Then I jack off hard. I don’t mind if you…if you fuck _my_ ass. I’d _let_ you…I really would…I guess only _you_ …” Then he unzipped Waylon’s pants, “I _love_ you. You been my crush forever.”

Waylon was so shocked, “Look Pat, maybe you are drunk…I am a _guy_ and I am _the_ nerd…I mean…I am the nerd you _beat_ up not _hit_ on…” Waylon’s voice was caught as he felt Pat groan and slowly touch his dick…pump it a bit…feel it as though he was trying to learn his body…Waylon got uncomfortable… this was…he wasn’t really attracted to big, muscled, copper-haired, almost crewcut Pat Posey…now Pat’s current girlfriend…Belinda Varmos…now he had to admit that seeing that curvy, athletic, dark brunette half-Latino woman at times just _did_ it for him…well, she was not typical mean girl and was not rude to him…she once even invited him to a party in her house and to her gawking friends declared “Waylon helped me pass my math test; he patiently listened to my questions, so you guys suck it off…” but Pat looked a bit hurt then…wait, was he mad that Belinda had even once said “you know Waylon, without this school, these rules, I’d fuck you, in a heartbeat, in a new York minute…because you…you are nice and you said I could pass the test.” So, was Pat mean to him a bit more after…because of Belinda…or was it because he was just jealous he couldn’t ask _him_ or say the _same_ to _him_? Or Both?

“I am drunk on you always have been.” Pat teased Waylon’s mouth with his own, “I am gonna give you a colossal apology.”

Waylon was slowly taken to the bathroom and before he knew it…Pat took down his already unzipped pants and…took his dick in his mouth. And sucked. Slow. Then hard.  A bit harder. Waylon almost yelled, “Pat! Wait!” And after a few moments he got a bit hard.

“Wow, Waylon, you got endurance…” Pat gave a really naughty look, “Man, you don’t go down easy do you? Fuck, you are turning me on ten times man.”

Waylon looked away, “Don’t do this. I don’t like you.”

Pat stopped a minute, “Waylon…”

“You always been mean to me…” Waylon almost choked, “I am not some fuck who wants a blowjob to get even. You mad my life miserable!”

Pat looked up and just smiled sadly, “Yeah I know.”

“This is just…I mean…out of some _weird_ …porn script…” Waylon was getting nervous.

“Just enjoy it. I wanna _suck_ your pecker.” Pat said and he gave a long lick, “Yum, tastes good.”  Then flirtingly looked up, “Not that I second-guessed _that_.”

Waylon had cried a bit hard when he came.

It was almost the end of high school.

Pat had asked him out, said he liked both sexes, and Waylon was his long time crush or even _love_.

Waylon had to decline. With politeness. He wasn’t really interested in guys. And certainly not Pat. Waylon wanted a connection. Waylon wanted love like that sweet afternoon nap he had with that girl (name was Dorothy “Dory” Firehale, of British-American descent) and soon he had found Lisa.

Reviewing his sexual history was chaste enough, Waylon was thinking that those were not necessarily bad or negative experiences. He almost felt like an outcast who had to outlast, well, being stereotyped nerd and many other labels like loser and racist slurs that put down his Korean and/or Welsh ancestry. To some students in Berkeley he was “The Quiet Mathematician” scribbling notes, both rough and fresh, threading number upon number alongside as though excavating oysters and stringing along pearl chains of thought. He was bit boring, a bit curious, a collage, a bricolage of many moods and types. A petri-dish of personalities. It was hard to categorise Waylon Park at times. He was shy and brilliant — those were the regular morphemes, so to speak — but then he was an excellent sprinter (as noticed once when he had decided to just run in the football field) and then he was good looking and looked cute when he was clumsy. Wasn’t totally a bibliophile. At times read chick-lit, at times read leftist papers and Marxist theories then dabbled with right-wing groups who did not mind having him around. Then he read and slightly sketched manga and watched anime, played the video games of all types (like angry birds and found it hard at times). Did not always like Dungeons and Dragons, preferred the classics to the new RPG digital which was funny as he was a programmer but he liked ancient scripts at times. He took a Korean and English calligraphy course in university as an elective and excelled in it; the teacher loved his passion. Of course, he excelled in the dedication was a bit sloppy, but his professor had said, he had beautiful hands, and with more practice he could do more. Oh well, he had to give it up.

Waylon recollected this in snippets and tassels because that’s how people had analysed him and truthfully he too wondered what type he was. I mean the information was not really non-credible. People did look at “types” though types don’t really always exist. Like this is what he got from Lisa; who had a surgeon’s hands when came to math and typing code; each font, number, dash, slash, space and input — either on pen and paper — handled like sewing organs or cutting through tissue or handling soft lymph nerves at some junction near the spine. Her handwriting was cursive, that sliced paper like a scalpel, yet the dots, ellipses, numbers and letters had an indentation usually associated with blocks or print writing. She loved art and knew artists that he never knew. She knew physics intimately; didn’t like chemistry much, not that she did not like the complexity of hormones, beta-blockers, catalysing enzymes — she just loved the fluidity in classical mechanics and she didn’t always like string theory and to her chemicals at times, when seeing their fast changing colours, reminded her of  that. Though, Waylon didn’t like chemistry much as he forgot portions of the periodic table (Lisa didn’t ironically) but it was that fast-mixing of atoms and states that fascinated him. Like a chemical haiku on some infinity repeat…like the 0.08333333 the -1/12 only it also hooks onto something else that could be at times incomputable. But interesting.

Lisa had said thought that he is too linear at times. Needs to be more spatially aware. And truthfully, she may be less linear than _him_ yet linearity is also in her. Well, he hadn’t been linear in a while. Actually, linearity was something he trained a bit on himself. It wasn’t that his traits of “good natured” or “polite” was an act of sequences. Rather it was him…only, when he had tried extending beyond with other kinds of empathy…other methods of talking…like talking a bit diligently about a small scratch on a thumb of his university roomie he went “dude, don’t it’s just a cut” but he was saying it looked angrier and that his skin might just be opening up another dimension too, just joking around and also entering a foray to a metaphysical (Lisa understood), but this creeped out many people. They rather not always talk on this. They preferred a pertinence, a distance (at times), or a regular dick-on-the-way joke. Time dictated closeness in most spaces. Yet time was not always reliable or like light, it was both waves and particles but people thought it was always a pace of chrono-logos. And he did didn’t know what to say about that except leave the topic.

All these memories.

Wailed loud as the rain outside, was the rain just a reification of a human heartbeat?

Did it palpate and pulsate because he was too?

Maybe…God must know he guessed…

The shadows flowed and fluttered like ancient butterflies now ashen; a phoenix left half-complete. Reborn only in the ashes as ashes. With white bones and black breath to swing them through…

Waylon looked next to his dresser…some books were also there…he hadn’t noticed them before…

One of them was _A History of the World in 100 Objects_ by Neil MacGregor, the other was Vladimir Nabokov’s _Pale Fire_ poetry collection and the third _Selected Poems in Translation_ of Pablo Neruda. Inside Neruda’s book was a print of a poem not included in the language but from the poetry foundation website called “Sexual Water”. Well before he read that he a poem from the book called “Enigma with Flower.”  They both had pretty erotic imagery in a way. “Enigma with Flower” had lines like “pushing at a clear, faint form, / till the hour strikes; that clay,” and ending with “and, from the motion of light,/spills itself an astonished seed.” _Wow, that kinda sounds like a wet dream_ , Waylon smiled, _nice way of detailing it_. And in “Sexual Water” lines like “rolling in drops”, “shaping, thickening” and “to its sea, to its juiceless ocean,/ to its wave without water.” Was a nice personification/allegorical stance on intercourse if someone asked him. Funny, it also reminded him of the Walrider and the rain. Well, the Walrider manifested slightly perversely in an inky swarm that reminded you of sex and all of that.

As his eyes closed again…or rather flickering between sleepiness and wakefulness…Waylon thought strangely that it was so wet outside…maybe it won’t become wet anymore _in_ him, within him…

 

 

* * *

 

The hyper-sense of rain finally hit him like dilated blocks of sounds, decimal points on an axle curve and digits of pointillism that shivered and heaved with the hair on his body…

Dactyl eyes opened into an inky darkness — no, not of the lights out, within him, greyer than the rain and thick as lightning clouds, though not malevolent. Just sinking in.

_Rain smell, what’s it called again, petrichor…? Yeah…that’s it…_

_“Rain smell has a name?”_

Miles heard that other voice echo along with his own brain and throat. “So, you been asleep too?” Miles groggily reviewed his surroundings. Saw his jacket nicely put on a table, a desk to be precise…how his socks and shoes were also kept in a similar manner…next to his bed… “I guess we got knocked out huh…and Waylon, being Waylon, got us here.”

_“It’s raining outside.”_

“Yeah, it is.”

_“I like it. It feels familiar, safe and warm. It feels filling.”_

“I guess.”

_“I am gonna go outside.”_

Miles looked to his side, reflexively, though there was no phantom, just him, “Are you sure that’s a good idea Wallie?”

_“Uhm, yeah, to me it is…”_

Miles looked at the wall-clock, Past midnight…1am…it was the witching hours…

“I guess I wanna know…” Miles saw the inky fluids come out as the Walrider became its phantasm-self, “Didn’t you say this space, wide open, makes you, well, uncomfortable?”

 _“Not with rain.”_ Wallie smiled, _“Rain shuffles out painful static. It’s nature’s white noise.”_

“Good point.”

With that Wallie was gone out from the window.

Miles thought, Shall I go see Waylon? I mean he might be sleeping but…

Looking at the door. Miles walked to it and saw the lock…and soon opened it…He could hear breathing…only breathing…heard Waylon’s breath come out in peaceful echoes…something about him felt a bit well…natural and easy…

Then he heard it…wasn’t supposed to that clearly but well…he was bonded with Wallie so they shared some keenness of senses…it was a humming…”I want a girl, just like the girl that married dear old dad….she was a pearl…and the only girl that daddy ever had….”

Miles wondered who was singing a barbershop quartet from 1911?

Then with silken steps, soles as exquisitely soft and stealthy as a cat, he prowled.

A panther, a knight, willing to break the symmetry of spells past midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well as the game is very male-oriented in population I put the canonically mentioned character here, Helen Granat :) and Danielle Austen is an OC. The chapters are kinda long and slow. But I am trying to build layers of action and psychology but bear with me a bit. Tell me what you thought please need some opinions :D


	9. Looking at Other Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is gonna be short. It;s an intermission of sorts. I have been writing really long chapters and updating kinda fast. I think it is too overwhelming. I don't want to make a burden of something that is to be " a delicacy, unwrapped and unwrapped again and savoured" XD well technically Eddie Gluskin described fanfiction hahahahaah. 
> 
> GRAPHIC AND DISTURBING STUFF AND conversations in this chapter too, disturbing imagery and concepts of incest. I think it's safe to say many of my chapters will be psychologically uncomfortable in certain passages. Like the skin crawling feeling you got when Waylon saw that man bating to dead corpses and Miles got pissed as he saw necrophilia and being called sick by that dude =/ You'll get to know Darian or Daryl a bit more.

 

**Looking at Other Demons**

 

Rudolf Wernicke looked placidly outside the night-time world outside. Large shadows passes by…meandering clouds…it was still raining somewhere…the perspiration of slight humidity with the slight precipitation indicated as much. Rudolf thought of happier times. Working with Alan. His Turing. That once accidental kiss…no, it was designed to look accidental but it was intentional. For he had loved him so much. And still did.

Well, Alan was…he did a have a wider moral compass than him.

Ironically, that man, Miles Upshur, reminded him a bit of Alan; the determination. But a good paragon was…Waylon Park. Of course, they couldn’t really compare, not fully anyway. But, that Waylon, with his slick sensual way of approaching mathematics. It aroused something in Wernicke. The strange companionship between Upshur and Park. It made him reminiscence about…things that made him…feel…younger, virile and so _envious_. Thinking of how a rough enough, hardened man like Miles would yearn for the touch and care of a perseverant yet non-cynical gentle-man as Waylon.

Yet, he hated old age. Wernicke thought of the mythological Sybil, hanging from a tree nothing but bone-husk bark. And thought it would be great to be young and aged. Sometimes, he wanted a companion. Male or female. Didn’t matter. Just wanted sex. He was old as sin but not dead as his business ethics. The feeling of being loved…why was it so elusive? To him it had been either a tortoise or a hare but he could catch neither.

The soft thudding knock made him look once more inside his room. It wasn’t his office per say. Or maybe one of his long libraries plus workspace. Wernicke was of the top brass so multiple accommodations were a natural aspect for him. The sound continued in low beats, the knocking was deliberate but following a respectful decorum: “Daryl…?” Wernicke ultimately stated, “Is that you?”

The name “Daryl” had been a nickname. It then shifted and became of his Darian’s actual names or placed pseudonyms. The name-shifting was also of the ilk with Habrok, a name given to this Walrider as it was a Norse mythological hawk and Darian’s Walrider had keen instincts to kill, though he had also affectionately nicknamed ‘Slicestorm’ for his propensity to make knives, daggers, scythes and metallic appendages with ease and slice off more than one of a favourite body-part.

Darian had been called “Daryl” by his father too, Wernicke mused a bit, once upon a time. Darian’s father, Dmitri Leitner, was a friend of his. Dmitri had died a long time ago. Wernicke had fond memories of him, none so bad. After Turing had rejected him it was his Austrian=Russian friend who had nursed his feelings: not sexually. Dmitri was already engaged with _someone_ else. More or less, sexually and romantically. Dmitri had just placated him saying that these things happened. Well, seeing he died for a folly of his own creation; Wernicke supposed those sorts of things happened.

“Come inside Darian.”

With his trusted Walrider by his side Darian entered and the Walrider’s talons was a tray of fine china, a piping kettle and some sumptuous crumpets. Habrok held it very delicately; as if he was holding a glass version of Darian’s heart, easily, with fingers slightly pressed as shrubs press upon the earth. Wernicke thought this was good training. Habrok was Slicestorm that meant his nano-motor skill replications were a bit limited. That Walrider could not usually carry even inanimate objects without breaking them. Once Wernicke had given him a white rabbit to hold.

In a moment it was shredded as sticky, disgusting confetti like substance.

It was nice to see the creature improving itself. Of course, most Walriders ascertained themselves as the gender and/or sex associated with their hosts. Yet, there was were those other cases…thinking about…that one…The first one I was…XX1 then came Darian’s XY2…if only XX1 was not such a failure to my expectations…more brilliant than Upshur’s XY6.

“I thought we could have tea and just talk.”

“I am afraid I do not much comment about Helen Granat’s impertinence towards me. We may share the same blood, she is related to me of course. However, she is more determined to finish certain phases of the Walrider project. I do not blame her. Well, her twin, Henry is like her too, but more of an ass. I admire Helen’s dedication. However, I did slap her, rest assured she slapped me back.” Wernicke informed, “But I couldn’t ignore the other matter that the consortium of our Elders were pretty chagrined with me. They told me that my favouritism of Billy is also contributing to the outbreak at Mount Massive.” Wernicke snorted, “I have made leaps in the technology these loose fucks did not.”  Then sighed, “Yes, but they did help me with a lot of research and money. And Ariel Swanson had been generous enough to placate the few elites in the midst who wanted my total resignation and incarceration. Murkoff chairs one or two of them in that group. I must treat Ariel to dinner, she does help me too much. I must say though that her XY9 Cygnus Walrider is a pretty impressive animal.”

Habrok put down the tray a bit more loudly than necessary. In its skeletal face was an imminent scowl eminent in also how annoyed he was than Wernicke would praise _another_ Walrider in front of him, especially their own given history as of late and even in the past has been a game of trial and error criticisms. Darian looked irritated too. Wernicke was speaking out of turn, he knew that. Despite his protégé’s love and concern for him, it was his _love_ that could be _feared_. That could be very dangerous indeed.

“Well,” Wernicke dared it, “I do think Habrok needs better manners.” Then giving the eye to him, the creature, glowing bit brighter, akin to boiling water, “Better a lot of things.” Then looking at the tray, “You were doing so good…” then looking up with a mocking smile, “Until you fucked up.”

Habrok seethed but then…as expected as a prisoner he went and lay next to Darian who looked neutral next to a fireplace that was already ablaze and crackling; singing in an old Promethean fairy tales and epics of Seraphim striding past.

“Dad, Habrok, Slicestorm is trying his level best to please you.” This was said sombrely as Darian poured some tea, chai, milk and the leaves blended, and put some sugar, already starting without Wernicke — as a gesture of both chagrin and impatience, “Can you give him some credit?”

“You already started without me.” Wernicke put his cup out, waiting for the serve, “You forget the etiquette.” As Darian just poured he looked at the lying black nano-carpet mass and said, “Yes, bringing the tray without killing it is a good sign. Good work Habrok.”

Habrok looked almost ecstatic and rolled around the actual halftone carpet of brown and pink, unnaturally putting some nano like structures on the carpet, a bit like singes but Wernicke did not look so annoyed.

They drank the tea in silence. The fire crackled and burned and the world outside still had evidences of a storm somewhere.

Suddenly, Wernicke, naturally broke the quiet sipping with actual words.

“You think about your father?”

“All the time.”

Then the rapport continued in German, “English is a suitable tongue for a certain mores. I miss speaking with the eloquence of the Germanic tongue. With its accents and intonations. Like a well chiselled wall it grapples and twists

“I miss Father, Dad.”

“That you must.”

“I loved him so much.”

“That you did.”

“Do you think he would have married me as he once promised?”

Darian let out one of his largest secrets; though open book to Wernicke. Habrok, who laid near the fire like some pet, crooked up its inky ‘ears’ and looked a bit bothered for a moment, then decided to nap again.

“What _I_ think is irrelevant.” Wernicke logically, carefully answered, “You know your father in _that_ way.”

“Father and I made love so much. It sometimes hurt when he got hyperactive but I loved his attentions on me. And I loved knowing he _wanted_ me and _only_ me.” Darian smiled as he sipped his tea, clicking his tongue a bit, savouring the milk, “You know Father said that after the marriage I could and _should_ call him Dmitri; he said we would go away far away and that we could be in peace.”

“Your father could not have abandoned all his estates so abruptly.” Wernicke analysed, with scepticism, “I think he would have to make slightly different arrangements.”

“Just him, and me living as a couple.” Darian daydreamed a bit, “Just him and I, so happy, so _very_ happy, I already slept with him in the master bedroom.” Then with a small teaspoon of anger, “Those maids used to whisper though. As though I was a sacrilege incarnate. I loved father and we _just_ fucked. What’s _wrong_ with that?”  Darian banged his cup on the table, chipping it slightly.

“Well, it is not common for fathers and sons to become sons and lovers…” Wernicke added a bit of reserve in his tone yet his references (as he waxed D.H. Lawrence) were playful, “You cannot blame the maids.”

“Some of them were okay.” Darian looked a bit happy, thinking back, “Some of them got fucked by us too. I did not enjoy the orgies as much but I did spent most of my time with Father.” Darian smiled, Wernicke did not look much interested or disgusted (to him this sort of “love” even sexually expressed did not really matter to him as it was a weird coalition between power, reluctance and insecurities), “Dad, you know how Father was.”

“Yes, Dmitri Leitner was a very talented man.” Wernicke sipped his tea, pausing a bit to see the now distanced view of the window, “I can I suppose understand why you would sexually love him.”

“But it’s _not_ totally about the sex.” Daryl immediately defended.

“But it was based _a lot_ on sex.” Wernicke chuckled a bit but with all seriousness to making the conversation enlightening.

“Well, I suppose.”

“Darian, do you still love your father romantically?”

“Maybe, I do.” Darian looked at his chipped teacup, licked the borders of it, felt the prick of uneven china, “But…” then he threw the teacup with the little leftover tea and it went and burned brightly and china cracked, exploded, like a miniature explosive, “I am not really thinking he was my _true_ love per say.” Contemplating the flickering restlessness of the flames, “First love, first fuck, yeah, but…I wanna find my suitable person.”

“Hmm.” Wernicke sipped his tea, pondered on the youthful, attractive body of his protégé with certain envy, if love rested on some shelves of the body then he sure had an advantage.

“Speaking of love and all that. I actually am…” Darian looked at his watch, “I am actually thirty minutes late with my date with a lovely librarian named Cindy, you may know her, she is a part-time research consultant at our investigative firms.”

“Oh yes.” Wernicke looks a bit annoyed, “Darian-Daryl she isn’t part-timer, she is one of the new heads of the investigative departments. Cindy Eisner is the daughter of Derek Eisner. A man who still is in the board of our consortium. Derek owns a lot of Murkoff, if you would remember so kindly.”

“Yeah well.” Darian just smiled, “To me execs and all that are part-timers; regular ones are not so hardworking as us.” As he continued smirking his Walrider got up and cosily entered his body, “I guess Kurt Vigalondo won’t be happy, but, I guess I can call him over. Nothing like a spicy _ménage a trois_ to keep me and Habrok excited…” then giggled, “Or should it be _ménage a quatre_?” Smiling at Habrok who sneered with his skeletal face.

“Well, have a good time, but…” Finishing his tea Wernicke looked at him, “Don’t ruin the fine china all the time. The fireplace is not a disposal furnace.”

“Sure thing.” Darian left as Habrok now fully integrated inside his host’s body.

Wernicke sighed…looking outside… “So all the kink available for sexual deviants huh?” asking no one, or wanting divine answers, “What about love?” and the quiet cry of thunder in the distance, not so enraged, just a rumbling belly across the hemisphere, reminded him that he needed to take a light dinner. Then twisted famous lines, “What soft light yonder breaks a window…” with melancholy in his heart, breathing heavier than his age, “The sun has migrated to the east and Juliet knew not even the moon…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Darian is the antithesis of Eddie: he liked his sexual relationship with his father =/ yeah fucked up. Cindy Eisner and Kurt Vigalondo were mentioned in one of the last documents that Miles obtained in the game and I wanna make them characters. Maybe, not for long. Well, sorry I mentioned new Walriders so late. Also sorry if the chapters are a bit momentum less. I mean I am trying to build an even places narrative. That shows things a bit explicitly. I hope it's not boring anyone. Next chapter Miles is gonna well...let's say a showdown of grooms and brides, who is who or what is what hehehe Kinda making Eddie a bride too as in will Waylon be his groom in finely tuned armour suit? I put in OCs for a reason. I hope you guys don't think it's disrupting the story. They have to be counterbalances to certain things. And some minor-OCs are the well already named people from Outlast just represented with a fanonical eye ;) Please read and review thank you for all the support and kudos!


	10. Behaviours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I make Eddie fantasize about making love to Waylon, detail his body and have the Walrider go off by himself in the rain...oh yeah Miles and Eddie the showdown — thank you so much for all the kudos and comments :D

 

**Behaviours**

 

The heaviness clung to him like something dry and wet at the same time.

Then well, he woke up, in a moment where dreams and consciousness can become somewhat bridged. Gasping, hazy eyes, he looked at his room. Wait…where was…oh, yes, he had had a talk with his darling Waylon Park.

The heaviness was…oh, just him sweating out fatigue and excess accumulated adrenalin. Eddie limned from this experience that he was still subject to discomfort; his whole sleep-life had been a parable of being trapped in rock and hard place. He deftly, yet with some initial struggle due to his state of feeling groggy and dizzy-feverish, took off his comforter. No doubt Waylon had tucked him in. Like a father…not like his own motherfucking biological father…who’s tucking in meant also…raping him…and leaving him shocked and bruised…

Eddie noticed that he was still clothed. This gave him a comfort that he knew was also understandably related to his childhood. Eddie just gave an annoyed click of his tongue. And then his stomach grumbled…yeah, he had hardly eaten anything…and a smell…

Looking next to his dresser…was a nice aroma…a bit less warm but…pasta?! Eddie realised that undoubtedly his darling Waylon had left food for him. It took him a second to sit up and wolf down the contents. Lucky for him Waylon had made a lot unsure as to how much each diner would eat as The Twins were of a hefty size and Miles was now housing a psycho-daemonic creature inside of him. Eddie ate eagerly, leaving no bit of sauce or pasta skin unturned. Succulently he tasted each thing after a while with a relish. _Did darling cook this?_ Eddie paused a bit, _It’s so good…so homey and so nutritionally savoured…_

After finishing his meal and drinking the water Eddie almost lied down again. His body was overstimulated with foods as favourable and satiating as such that it needed time to figure out a new pace for his anatomy to feel whole again. Eddie listened to the rain outside. It had rained a lot near Mount Massive and it was notorious for its incessant fogs that damned the atmosphere of the place with its already ambient screeching, wailing and screaming from the variants and other patients. The place felt something out of Dickensian dystopian London streets; that whole Victorian Gothic etched into the buildings and environments. Well, not inaccurate in the slightest. It was a dreary-ass fucker that place.

After a while Eddie went to a temporary sleep, as if his body was processing all the chemical combinations, the carbohydrates, the sucrose, the dietary plant materials and the small pockets of proteins — only to wake up approximately twenty minutes later to the rumbling of clouds, slow yet not so stentorian.

Sighing Eddie looked at his dirty gloves. And then looked towards the bathroom. In a moment he was there taking of his gloves and putting them in a laundry basket. His clothes followed and soon he examined his grime filled flesh with some cuts and bruises that felt slightly sorer now but not so much. It felt that his attentions had dulled the pain and sleep had awaken them ever so gently, without harshness, but it was good to feel some pain. A body’s own paramedics systems went into making you a bit consciousness of it before healing it. Eddie tested for warm water; it was there.

Before he bathed with the crystallised pipe-waters that had infused the coolness of rain in them, he wanted to use hot water as an antiseptic over his cuts. A good ointment afterwards would help but he saw it was late and well he didn’t want to wake up darling. Me here, and him tucking me was a great heap on effort…

Eddie softly exhaled with a grunt as the hot water touched him. The water was almost like fingers. The heat and the warmth of it. Eddie sighed a bit. He had avoided the closeness of bodies because the memories of what kind of bodies existed and what bodies had done for him hurt too much. So he made substitutions. Warm water, cold water, porcelain tubs, towels, cotton sheets, lavender scents — all those paraphernalia that reminded you of human intimacies but for him could exclude the humans.

 Human bodies made such a fearful contradiction to him. Or, was it a paradox? A human body torn from its viscera reminded one of plagues, starvation of filth, excrements  and all the ugly things that scorched and went rotten under the sun…as a child with his body almost gutted like some fish…he saw a fish die under the hot sun it’s scales becoming shards and discs of hot waste …he saw pies turn sour…taste as though the berries puked on themselves…and then he also saw a dog carcass with its desiccated tongue no longer waging wet and he pulled it and it ripped out as though it was some old lever…

Then the same human body was warmer than water, more chivalric than that liquid, thicker and it pulsated like a growing half-cloud, half-steam that captured your bones and made flesh a poetry of so many muscles and machinations. The way skin talked about the body, the way the eyes did, the way your heart an organ also governed by some rigmarole of spirit and vessels of so many little chemical units.  A body alive under the sun is the antithesis of rotten and the superpower-version of a garden; it flowers and furls more than petals, a breathing it engages with the humming and blowing of the wind. How even night is made darker, subtler, fiercer with the companionship and the dance of bodies. And how the moon is made more noticeable when a body shines in its emporium.

All these things scared him. Fascinated him. Love’s arbour was so giant. It made meteors look like missed arrows and other planets look like some askew wrinkles of some space-haggardly face. And he was fascinated how all these connected. What was the relevancy of their connections?

Eddie looked at the droplets of water that swam on his body, soaked and went into his pores as if they belonged there, like cascading oceans licking each other. The accentuation of his muscles…the beautiful geometric flush they possessed…he was a symmetry of cool, slope-pointed hips, a wide chasm, a line bent as wedges and shafts…perfect as sinews swirled in them as music drafting a composition of blood and breath. The water lankily strode on his skin, his abdomen taut and poised, he was a brass Adonis…a one that did not have a marble finish…it was like he was a draft in progress but so beautiful to be seen by public eyes…his belly had minute fat yet it sank as fat, precarious yet then swerving, swelling as a smooth condition of organ and lipid; a bridge between action and rest…it was that layer with the muscle that made melody of ripples that water could envy. Eddie had a build many lumber jacks would also crave; sturdy yet buoyant but had that finesse that you could use at garden parties.

Eddie’s chest was a voluminous width; the warmth did not mellow his nipples that had tasted the coldness radiating from surrounding tiles. The chest had a nice expanse…hard yet soft…somewhere between these ridges and belts was a heart that beat melancholically. There was a softness on the chest, excellent skin, good tenacity…he was what painters would want if they wanted warriors that gleamed and shone but also could be coupled as Ganymede sipping naughtily on cups, knowing a sensual taste that both eating and being eaten (in sexual terms not cannibalism), whose fervour was not as flamboyant yet not so hidden. Like a nymph he would take a bath hoping his lover would see him, then slowly circle the water, hearing soft sighs beyond the bushes, prompting him to touch his cock, not hard but attentive enough to visualise that his lover is already erect and probably stroking in automatic tugs. The nymph that would slowly touch himself in soft places…here and there….snips of his fingers on his flesh…as he too realised his own body’s sexual potency. And swirl around as a kid, in the water, with his buttocks, that callipygian, bobbing in the water…close to almost thrusting…halfway between some private theatre of exhibitionism and finally calling out to the bushes to join in and waddle in their bodies together…

Seeing his erect nipples made him annoyed. Looking at the soap he rubbed hard on them. His nipples reminded of the breasts of womanhood. Of those chests that made milk and had the nature to be suckled. His nipples were…pretty, delicate, he knew subconsciously their beauty, half-rose and half-mauve with specks of a brown…those pedo bastards touched him there…he was angry at their  violations…their sucking and their calling him a slut…but…sometimes he liked trailing hands on his own body…the feeling that he could be beautiful…not violated…it excited him…he wanted to know what it was like to…what it was like to be seduced by someone…or seduce them in a healthy, non-abusive way…like the nymphs…no, nymphs were women! He was so not a women! — But he hated to want it…

Waylon flashed in his eyes. Would he…would he ever like to watch him like that?

Remembering his beautiful hands enveloping Miles’s made him quiver and shiver…as he thought about…Waylon’s mouth on his abdomen…his muscles vibrating as each lick shacked him as an engine waiting to move and moan…this imagery got his dick so up he hadn’t noticed…would Waylon offer his nice elegant chest to be sucked…have his nipples rosy or what colour sucked and softly nibbled…Eddie grunted as he imaged, a bit gently, a bit with forced entering Waylon…and slowly grabbing his hips and a bit up, holding him from behind but halfway turning him to face him and saying how he wanted to see those watery-silver eyes mix with his cobalt blue, like some pattern on some erotic broche…and both he and Waylon moaning…and he saying he loves him…on and on…Waylon saying it once or twice too…that he loves him…hugging him like he  hugged Miles only deeper making Eddie’s cock take a longer  plunge and Eddie  would probably half-cum already by that action…Waylon biting and sucking his neck, his lips — they kiss both chastely and then also passionately…in between breaths they carefully say each other’s names as though knowing how to mark the other as _his_.

It took around three minutes for Eddie to come with just stroking slightly his cock and touching his skin all over…it was just too…just too vivid…

Eddie didn’t know if he should hate himself…but ever since he first saw Waylon not in his vocational area…but that engine room…there was _something_ about him…he was a manipulative person true…had that killer’s charisma…out of all of them Waylon looked decent…a bit _softer_ ….less corrupt…he wanted to curry that favour…but the…there was that true _strange_ look of Waylon…that one of frightened understanding and also sympathy…as if…as if he truly didn’t want to _hurt_ him…those beautiful silver eyes looking, so sad…yes, at that moment he thought…this man has beautiful eyes…and also that look of terror with apology. A sweetness that he could not fully describe.

No one has really, _looked_ at him like _that_.

In that mechanically induced chemical dream, where they tampered with your head, he could hear some scientists go on and on about reptiles, his childhood rapes and how he was pumping a dick in that dream that became an iguana-cock on his own body. Then saw an alligator running.

“Hey,”  that scientist, Mike, who had told Waylon ‘thank-you and goodbye’, who also tried to curry favours in a review board test  and told cloyingly that doubting Waylon was ‘unkind’ (though he was doing it all along too), “Is that normal?”

In all that fucked up sexual imagery came up a clean picture of Waylon Park typing in codes, with beautiful hands, well-structured, lovely grips and slants on the bones, Eddie had looked at them and thought those were hands were gloves, bands and rings should  be put on…he envied that a man could have such nice hands. And Waylon Park had a soft smile on his face. The control room changed to a nicely secluded office space with plants and a wooden desk and him also writing with a wave like capacity materials for some faraway documents. Or, was it poems…there was a Shakespearean way he was seated and writing something like sonnets…

“This fucker is thinking about Waylon Park. That programmer he ran to, who, just left.” Someone noticed with a surprised.

An indicative whistle in the room.

“Dude, is this guy gay too?” another asked.

“Nah, nah…” Mike sounded annoyed, as though his precepts were being fucked over, “This guy is a misogynistic serial killer. Ain’t nothing in data logs about any homoerotic fantasies.”

“Well, Eddie is kinda of a cunt of a subject I heard. Denied to the shrinks he was raped.” A scientist with a mask, the one who had said Waylon was cutting close, “I mean Waylon is a  good looking dude…” whistled a bit behind his gas-mask, “I mean he does it for a lot of guys here…”

“Fuck that!” Mike almost screamed, “This bitch is a poor C group, getting no focus on his dreams or thoughts, push in some more meds, need to up the dream guidance.”

Well, after a few hours, he had come out of that dream due to a terrorizing Walrider…before he woke up he thought about Waylon typing and writing again…there was a neat, yet flexible beauty about him, he was the stuff of aesthetics in a way…

Eddie washed off this feeling.

This shame.

He wasn’t sure if it was love.

Yet, he had much feeling, was sensuous and wanted fulfilment.

It was a crush but a bit more…not an infatuation but…something akin to erotic wanting and wanting intimate affections…

Eddie had switched on the cold water. It took him a second or two; the knobs were modern not the classic prison dials. Felt the essence and freshness of rain in them. His nipples were hard but they were now tolerable. Eddie put some of the soap on his head, lathered the stripe of hair he had and went in for a few moments under. After the rinsing was complete he filled the basin with blood and corked in; lathered a bit of soap and hand wash and put his dirty clothes and gloves. Grateful to God because the sink was large so only half of a leg from the pants protruding with a bit of the shirt tails. That needs to be cleaned, it smells a bit too much body odour…

Eddie wrapped a towel around his chiselled hips and went out the bathroom. Shuffled through the drawers, saw some clothes, neat tucked. Some female and male. There were a set of basic boxers and briefs, new in a slight black and white polka dotted colour, wrapped and sealed. Is this house designed to welcome new people? It has all these accessories. The size was large and another medium. Ripping off the large sized boxers he donned a pair as sleeping in the nude was not really comfortable to him.

While doing this Eddie, automatically, by some habit, reflex, sang, “When I was boy my mother often said to me…” as he pulled the boxers onto his ankles and adjusted the elastic, “Get married son and see how happy you will be…” Then snug around his “panty-lines”, “I want a girl…a girl…” he sang the song a bit convoluted, a bit carelessly, had rhythm but less syntactical positions.  

What Eddie did not notice is the door open, slightly, with a creak… a mad radiation suddenly became apparent in the room…

Eddie decidedly thought he would lie down and wait for Waylon to wake up.

This thought was interrupted by a guy grabbing him, almost picking him on the ground, with a grey-blackish blue aura around his eyes, blazing!

Eddie looked surprised but also gave a tough grip on his assailant.

Looking at the angry Miles Upshur looking straight at him: “And who the fuck invited you in?”

The rain travelled, sketching an outline, like a pencil with a different graphite, or a watery chalk. Static made him uneasy. Static opened a lot of possibilities: many things appeared that he did not understand. Human emotions were not singular, not always, that made it understandably interesting and not riffled with boredom. Yet, he was the naïve one. Aside imploding people from the inside he was not an expert on emotions, human activities or anything emotion-based. At times he questioned that because he wasn’t essentially or maybe even remotely human should he aspire for humanity?

To him killing and destruction were easy things…then again so was proximity and intimacy…

The asylum was a closed space but it was home. Each nook, cranny, crevice, corner and cul-de-sac he knew. Well, he wasn’t sure he was a “he” per say. All his musculature and certain anatomical archways were male in the traditional and addendum sense of the word. Also, he thought as most personalities he had assimilated and apprehended within him were male to be defined male was not entirely wrong. Besides, he did have a penis sort of thing. Well, it was sheathed, like an odd calyx of a flower. It didn’t know what stimulated it as violence did not in that fashion always so he wasn’t sure if even it had a purpose. Sex had many reasons; he wasn’t sure if he was apt for reproduction or something of the like and pleasurable erotica with the hindsight of feelings were also a bit strange and foreign to him. Yes, he had sucked on the penises or _peni_ of those two men, males, their masculinities were not really only evident by their members. In fact, he was pleased to know that there was so much to explore about men or males.

He had a paucity of knowledge about females. They did intrigue him as well. For to him they were more than just skin aesthetics or beautiful as popularly disclosed. There was a woman named Roland. He had seen her. Her hair cropped, to the neck, like brunette, had some Asian features, darker skin. The skilfulness in which she cut flesh, the delicate way, as though the human was still alive, it was a beautiful sight, each organ and limb assessed as though it was careful box of secrets. But she saw some compassion too. Some cases of disturbance as she saw a body that was fucked up (yeah, that was a catch-all term for what the Morphogenic Engine could do). Bodies boiling warts, protruding cancers, skinned alive by own blood…all the stuff of nightmares…he saw her sadness from time to time. It was touching. She wanted to resign. However, there was another odd woman…a cool neutral aura…almost improbable, that signature, as though something was both natural, unnatural and also modified…she had whitish hair…the word was platinum blond…right…hey heard Roland use that label…that odd woman’s name…was…what was it…again…? _Granat_ …sounded like another word that is found in mountains…it is called granite…something strong, firm, a bit unyielding…

And he saw that odd woman kiss the cheeks of Roland. Then her lips. Sensuously. Where they in love? Or something sexual? Oh, how he envied. How he envied what humans did with other humans when they could exercise kindness or an approximate way of closeness.

Yet he also hungered for tearing things up!

Why?

Probably because…he lacked an inside or an outside…if you think about it…

When he formed as a phantom by a coalescence of nanomachines the nano things that made him may have an outer and inner membrane. However, he soon turned into, silk, transparent and watery and inky and he did not know how oceans and seas did it but he did not understand what he was supposed to be: matter or antimatter? He had heard those terms before talked about by the scientists in the Mount Massive Asylum in cafeterias, administration blocks, even prison wards while they tortured and belittled and dehumanized patients…

He hungered.

Destruction but something more.

Something to kill, no, something to be able to satiate his need to know…implosions and matter…

The rain had culled the static, heightened his courage and senses; transformed his shivering and acuity into both dynamism and sheer need to know.

The rain mixed with him naturally. Added some clarity and weight.

In the distance he heard noises, hooves, and “moos” softly echoing and a bit discordant…

Wallie was a good name. It made friendly the phantom.

I had no beef with beef… Wallie thought. After all humans have an omnivorous taste right…All this grass and all that beef…fitting….

 

 

Eddie Gluskin looked at the radiating eyes of the man called Miles Upshur: “So, you are the creature Walrider’s new bitch huh?”

Miles tightened his grip making Eddie grunt, “A bitch that can make you a bitch inside out…or a doggy wank…watch your words…”

“A Walrider thing…” Eddie looked narrowly at Miles, “I always wondered what the fuck-bastardy thing the shit was…I saw it once…I was scared…but then again I have been through hells before…hells that even make a Walrider invalid…” Eddie gritted his teeth, tightened his fist around Miles, “You are just a just a shadowy piece of fuck. I am the real nightmare.”

With that Eddie used his free hand to make a fist —

WHAM

Punched Miles on the face; Miles jolted a bit, but then he punched Eddie right in the gut. Something odd happened. There were some scratch marks now on his abdomen, Eddie saw small trickles of blood and growled and punched Miles twice now.

Miles responded by throwing Eddie hard across the room. Eddie hit the bedside table and what fell down was his shiv, the one he had carried around and had unfortunately used to terrorise his darling Waylon.

Well, Eddie still clutched it and then saw…Miles glaring, almost foaming, his mouth a bit more open than it should be, breathing hard, generating an inky-bright radiation, his eyes now pools of bluish-grey blots mixed with something shadowy. Eddie’s looked pretty surprised for a moment. “Demonic piece of shit!” Eddie screamed and lunged at him with his dagger-like-shiv and slashed right and left. Miles was fast though and dodged those attacks smiling, taunting, as though he was taking pure delight in seeing Eddie _fail_. Fail to bruise him.

And it was this arrogance that got him stabbed right under his underarm and near the last segment of his lungs. Miles cried but more in rage than in pain. And Eddie twisted the knife. Miles gnarled but then grinned. Obviously, he had underestimated Eddie a bit. But just a bit. “Oh you gonna scream now.”

Miles almost lashed against Eddie’s stomach and he had soft, if not deep, talon marks on him. Eddie’s scream was a surprise too, not really prepared for that.

Then he saw Miles calmly un-twist that shiv and take it out. Blood poured out but he seemed a bit numbed. A bit unfeeling. Then he ran towards Eddie and Eddie reflexively grabbed his hand that now bore his own weapon, “Lemme carve up a Halloween smile on you; carve you up as a turkey, cold and cool, a delicatessen fit to be _eaten_ …” Miles was frothing at his mouth and Eddie was now getting horrified. At the ecstatic way that Miles was uttering to kill him.

Eddie pushed his hand away and kicked his leg making Miles go down a bit and then he kneed his face. Putting Miles back and then Eddie, in that time window, also kicked his chest. Yet Miles had not unsheathed the shiv and remarkably got up with that mad grin on his face and stabbed it right on Eddie’s left shoulder. Needless to say it was not a flesh wound; Miles twisted the projectile, “Let’s see what did the teacher do…?” Miles mocked Eddie, who had his mouth opened wide with pain, and had a silent scream lodged there, “Oh right. My bad sensei.” And Miles twisted it in harder and Eddie just howled at the assault.

Miles grabbed, clawed at Eddie’s throat, small scratches appeared. Eddie breathed deeply and attempted to get out the shiv and push away Miles. However, Miles looked totally infatuated by the torment near Eddie’s face, “I wonder…” he stuck out his tongue, playfully, as Eddie struggled, “If I bite open your throat right now will you bleed very fast or kinda slow.”

“Fuck you! You inhuman piece of shit!” Eddie punched Miles’s shoulder and roared. Then he spit on his face. Miles looked happy, mad-happy, and more lunatic than any asylum patient at Mount Massive.

…But then Miles vomited out blood…and it got on Eddie’s face partly and on his chest…and it stank and there were small chunks of meat…

“Miles!” Waylon’s voice broke through the chaos, “Eddie! Oh my God! What’s happening?! Oh God!”

Eddie was so stunned. Though the grip of Miles had slackened he just stared and was puzzled and scared.

The Twins were nearby; it seemed they had come earlier than Waylon but seeing a Walrider-ridden Upshur fighting with a Gluskin they were not really supposed to hurt they had been initially confused who to target. It was when they thought splitting up was the best choice when the catastrophe hit rock bottom went on Titanic overdrive and smashed skull-icebergs. They were as flabbergasted to see Miles vomit… out blood… _his_ own blood? Oh dear God….

Eddie stood as Waylon grabbed Miles and he let go of the other man. Miles succumbed to the chest of Waylon and almost looked as in a daze. Then belched out more blood. Then shiver and shook. And Waylon called out his name repeatedly: “Miles! Miles! Miles! Miles Upshur! Oh dear God what’s happening?!”

That’s when Miles shook harder as though he was having a seizure. Eddie just stared as Waylon almost started crying out of frustration. Then with a yell commanded: “You…” Pointing at Eddie “Go around and stand there!” pointed at The Twins and Eddie skit a bit happy to comply, “You!” pointing at Tom, “get some towels, put them under hot water and drench them and bring ‘em here! I need some compresses!” Waylon used his hand as a makeshift wedge, “Need to keep his mouth open!” Then looked at Tim, “Help Eddie he’s bleeding!” Eddie had clutched his heavily wounded shoulder. Waylon then unhooked Miles’s belt and put a part of it in Miles’s own mouth, “Just hold on Miles! Hold on!”

Tom bought the towels and Waylon wrapped them around Miles a bit, pressed his forehead and neck. He almost ripped off Miles’s shirt. The classical white that he preferred with his jeans. Buttons popped and skidded across the room and Waylon pressed now Miles’s chest and abdomen.

 After five minutes Miles started breathing again. Slowly, he gurgling out small doses of blood, Miles quietened and looked half-dead with his half-closed.

By this time Waylon had started crying. Shock had prevented him but now relief and weight had won a bit.

“I think he will live.” Tom quietly, soothingly, touched his shoulder, “Good work Waylon Park.”

Waylon breath had also slowed down. In a moment, Miles got up! Upright, his eyes glowing brighter than it had even moments with his fight with Eddie

“Miles.” Waylon called out and The Twins and Eddie took a step back, “Miles, I think you lost a blood and —“ Waylon couldn’t finish.

Miles snarled and looked at them, making even Waylon jump a bit in fright, “It’s not _my_ fucking blood! It’s _cow_ blood!” Miles screamed, “You piece of shit!” Indicating someone else.

And Miles ran and broke out from the window with Waylon calling out to him.

In the rain and thunder Miles ran as though he was possessed with energy pulsing as though he was train.

In his head…images…of cow blood…cow throats…cow intestines and guts being slashed and mashed…

As the Walrider stopped munching on a thigh bone and looked up.

 _Something_ white hot molten, lacerating him from the _inside_ , was coming in full force.

It was so deadly that it made its nano self-feel a crawling pace of fear

…as a colossus anger he himself did not possess rash through and rivalled thunder whips and roars…

 

**End of Indriya One**   
_**Dark Slate Grey** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was that. I hope you guys are liking it :D Miles got to pick a static-bone with Wallie and lets see how everyone takes it. Miles might hurt Waylon :( oh but maybe that might enlighten them more of each others' causes. Next chapter will have Jeremy Blaire, Henry Granat, Darian or Daryl and well a lot of Eddie/Waylon and Miles/Waylon too hehehe. Gonna be a long chapter again. Sorry, if my fanfic seemingly is going too SLOW. I really wanna make this fic have a strong foundation or a spine. But prerogatives and priorities are gonna come up very fast. Ah, my 10th chapter. Thanks guys for the support. Now we might also get to know a bit more about my interpretation of the lucid dreamers too. A lot of handle so better start a writing, no? Hope you stay around for the whole ride. 
> 
> I decided to call the sections of this fanfic Indriya which is Sanskrit for organ. So end of Indriya one and a colour so :)


	11. Approximations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER HAS MAJOR DISTURBING IMAGES AND GRAPHIC CONTENT AND SEXUALL:Y GRAPHIC CONTENT. TRIGGER WARNINGS DO COUNT TOO. 
> 
> This chapter is 10k long. I don't know what happened. Many of the things just wrote themselves and I just went with it XD I might not update in a while or Chap 12 will be shorter. This chapter focuses on both plot elements and characterizations. I hope you enjoy.

 

**Indriya II  
** **Coffee**

 

**Approximations**

 

 

The rain bangs on everything.

So much so that it seems to change all basic states of matter in a matter of minutes. Sometimes it crystallises as air, it becomes as skewed and hard as stone against walls, and trees even the rocks and pebbles on the ground. It is all knife, divider, uniter, filler — both paradox and singularity. And it is made more analysable by the bond two distinct entities share as rain: human and an alp, or “mara” or “schrat” or Walrider…

For a human, homo sapiens, man, once even called a “true amphibian” has many names too like this being. Yet could be more lethal, more dangerous, more angry, than a Walrider craving flesh to tear…

 The loose and flappy intestines of the cows was enough to make the _live_ herbivorous that remained to shriek with absolute fear. Amongst the guts and detritus of organs and black bright and red thing slushed and swung with the blood. No amount of thunder deterred the irrevocable mounting pressure of panic and terror. Flesh hung by light sinews, almost hairs of threadbare nature. The offal and the bone mixed and made patches of mortar-red, vile smells and yellowish pus and matter, alongside the brown of some chalky side, bluish-green of tossed veins, the blood coupled with the rain to make a flood of carnage. The damages of shrubs and nearby foliage was also shown; snips of branches were half inside some of the now-empty hulls of cow bodies. Ruptured, their sacs of four stomachs spilling out contents coniferous and otherwise. A dying cow gave a mooing last breath, half already dead with evisceration of her innards. Or was _she_ a _bull_? The farmers had put in a few steers, a few bulls into the batch. The rain had made pollution control a bit of the agricultural problem. On a nearby stump lay the bloodied, unattached tongue of one such hapless creature, near the side of the stump the head, brown and white, hung in both decadence and last denouement of fear.

Rain mixed with blood. Torrents were splashed. Rain made marrows and other blood materials visible. Some parts of the ground was thick  with the  contents of blood material; a microscope sniffing or a trained eye with see the little reds of haemoglobin or the battalion of platelets. Some long guts hung like decorations of long tee-branches. The glistening rain accentuated the glistening of blood.

Wallie the Walrider had slaughtered at least eight large cows.

The ninth was in its jaws, well secured, as it suckled the blood from its throat. Its udder was ripped and milky muddles dwindled with blood.

Wallie had been in a daze.

A daze that made the glistening of the rain more like a fog obscured my emotions, methodical killing logic and an avarice to just be brutal. Wallie did not know whence this tide, this behemoth of cruelty had cornered him. Like a puppet with some strong wired he danced to them. The empathy-waxing Wallie, the one that had carried a philosophical repertoire in his black-inky breast, and had opined on the benefits of being a male, with an extended understanding of maleness, the base qualities of sentience, had somehow lost itself somewhere.

It had pined destruction for that wolf in its chest had always been fed. It was not nature, it wasn’t simply habit: it was a routine that he knew not how to dodge completely. It was the tricks of the circus. And both Miles fatigue, emotional stress, which he had been trying to _curb_ added to this incident. The confusion, the new responsibilities, the new senses, they all tired him — he may not have the shiny new cancers, no muscle degeneration yet he was fucking mentally stressed out. Emotionally was become a wreck. Subconsciously, unconsciously both the Walrider’s own discomforts and Miles’s own troubles were adding to this incident.

As it sucked, for he had become an “it” again, an “it” that hungered without much intention or understanding, it heard the dying bleating of the cow, soft moos that synchronized with the pulse that waned. Its eyes were wide, focused on only blood not anything else. It even forget the malleability of its skin, its nano flesh: he was somewhere in there. Just it was unoccupied at the moment. Walrider possessed the archive of many insane personalities. Which ones perched and cracked and assimilated into his forms and artificial intelligence matrices was not known.

And as it sucked and sucked…it sank and sank…sank and sucked…sucked and sank…until the sound of hair tearing and a thud…loud…with weight made it look down. The decapitated cow was at last at rest.

“You did a job that would make ‘ol Chris Walker proud.”

And amidst the rain, the quietened hush of remaining livestock, stood a bright ember as though someone was white flame carried with the lightning. The Walrider had felt him. Every inch, blood boiling, almost scarring his own flesh, veins so prominent make the internal architecture of lymph and marrow into a projecting bulb.

The Walrider knew it was trouble.

As Miles Upshur screamed and rushed forward and started punching the lights out of him.

Snarling and roaring as loudly as the rain.

 

* * *

 

At first they all _just_ stared after Miles.

The broken window brought with it water and the cries of wolves, coyotes and the blazing storms and rain that changed its pitch and tone.

Waylon had shielded himself. Glass screamed as angry as the clouds. Demanding to be known. The regurgitated blood stained itself on broken shards like some peripheral, hindsight blood test on some microcosmic level.

Tom and Tim looked at each other in dismay. Such sudden outbursts were understandable in the asylum; they trained for the lunatics and even the Walrider. They knew how to hide from such phantom. They may have liked Father Martin yet they did show scepticism in his beliefs that the Walrider was a god. They did know it was dangerous and tore people from the inside like a heart-attack and spontaneous combustion all happening at once. Yet, they didn’t train to see a Walrider’s host go berserk. They hadn’t known intimately about daemons needing hosts; after all you know of poltergeists not much about the houses they possessed. A fractal history in the study of parapsychology.

By this time Eddie was puzzled as what his purpose was. The rage, the complete sadistic flare, it was something he himself exhibited though to make it parallel from his abusers he had gleaned and glazed it with superficial charm. Seeing raw, uncut schadenfreude coupled with aggression made him uneasy. Shivering in an afterglow of memory; such items of behaviour made him remember his childhood abuse and torture.

Waylon breathed heavy. “Miles…” softly calling, as though he had not vanished (The Twins remembered their conversation in the showers where they once had been sarcastic about this and realised how ironically cruel the situation was. They wanted to laugh out of the strangeness of it). However, Miles was gone. Waylon became worried and alert.

“Miles!” Waylon shouted and to the amazement of the three he too jumped out of the window.

He landed and rolled, painfully hitting his side but then adrenalin and willpower just accelerated him into that shroud of cloud and night.

“Darling!” Eddie went near the window and saw Waylon run off. With only a minute pause he too jumped and landed more gracefully, as though he knew such wears, and ran after Waylon, “Darling! Darling! Waylon wait! It’s dangerous!”

The Twins looked at each other. Tim sighed, “Grab a towel.”

And with their privates covered they too jumped after them.

Thousands and thousands of snipped thoughts echoed in Waylon, _Cow Blood?_ That word made a massive jolt, as industrious as a lightning rod, _What do you mean by…Oh my God!_ Waylon realised it a bit, _Fuck, is Wallie, attacking the livestock we saw when we…Oh no, Oh God no, Oh no, no, no, how can Miles spit out….something that Walrider is attacking? Oh fuck, Oh fuck, oh hard fuck — we are up shore without a paddle! This is so fucking complicated!_

Waylon heard Eddie behind him, calling him darling and his name. Instinctual memory almost made him run faster until he remembered that Eddie was no longer his enemy. And so Waylon did something he never dreamed he would do: “Eddie, I am here! Look I know it’s dangerous but we need to get Miles! Please, try to understand!”

Eddie scrambled as he almost tripped on the wet, upturned roots. The plants chasing rain while they chasing a bestial spectre, _Fuck the trees are smarter than us_ , Eddie snorted, “Waylon, wait for me! Don’t go alone!”

There was screaming and the disjointed moving of hooves and feet and air as Waylon saw Miles crash his Walrider near a tree and clobber him into swarming static and noise. Miles was growling and grunting like a rabid wolf: “You motherfucking cretin! You chupacabra rip-off! Fucking cows! Cows! I can’t get this taste out of my mouth! Fucking vomit grass and blood! You motherfucking filth!”

Wallie also scratched and bit his host. They both fought for dominance. It was like some fetishist fight for no one was really gonna win. Waylon was awestruck at the amount of blood Miles was now truly losing but also regenerating in amounts…same with the Walrider, his nanomachines were splintered but came back whole again. Breathing hard and coming to a stop and clutching his shoulder was Eddie. Waylon was taken aback but then looked to see a worried Eddie. They both watched the two beings at loggerheads.

“Waylon this is…” Eddie was speechless and even Waylon was surprised because one thing he remembered about being chased by Eddie is that he sure had a lot of fucking things to talk about. Which was annoying actually.  

But Waylon shook his head as Eddie looked on a bit puzzled, a bit ready, his Waylon darling may need him…right….? Though…he felt powerless…a feeling he knew intimately and hated.

Waylon was feeling the same. _I have some leverage_ , Waylon clutched his fists, _I have some immunity, it is harder for Walrider to hurt me I think…though I don’t know about Miles._

And then he went near them and pushed Miles away as much as strength and adrenalin and perseverance would allow. Eddie took this opportunity and shoved Miles too and Miles who was already tripping got a leg down snarling and snapping like some enraged panther. Eddie then deftly secured both of Miles’s arms behind him to get a secure lock. Miles struggled but Eddie held on. This is what he could at least do right?

By this time, the Walrider was screaming and slashing and roots and branches. Frenzied, alert and as angry as Miles in this stage.

“Wallie!”

Then he stopped a bit.

“Look at me.” Waylon whispered almost, “Look, look…” Waylon swallowed as he smelled the nauseas effect of blood and entrails, “Look at what you done Wallie.”

Hearing his name, being treated with sentience, this made Wallie quieten and look at the massacred cows, the macabre, and the abattoir of his own making.

There was a collision of something gut-wrenching, like conscience, but also pain, like shame…warped itslf.

Didn’t understand but felt. This feeling was not numb rage, not numbed sharpness of hunger but something that made feel and smell the rain again. Know himself again as a Wallie. Obviously, he was not wanting to lose that. A Walrider is an amalgamation of various myths, portents, biometric jargons and paranormal investigations.

Wallie was **_identity_**. A someone. Not a _something_.

And it felt good. Better than the hunger for destruction.

Quietly looking at Waylon, the man, the very soft but expressive man, who know about those hungers that eluded him but he wanted to educate himself with, he said: “I am so, so, very truly, sorry.” There was a high pitch, as though a sob, a reflection, “I just lost control.”

Waylon saw the there was a ripple in where Wallie’s eyes were or seemingly were as Walrider eyes glowed and disappeared as the wisps of Ireland. It was as if the rain was surrogate for something akin to tears. Waylon sighed, “I understand. Just…” Waylon smiled softly, “Come back to the lodge.”

Wallie looked surprised as Miles then suddenly pushed Waylon out of the way and grabbed his throat: “You  fucking filth!” Miles had hit Eddie and broke free from the vice, “You are such a motherfucker! Cows, Cows! What next?!”

“Miles please stop!” Waylon grabbed his hands on impulse. “Look he is sorry let us just go back!” 

Waylon was shoved and Miles let go of Wallie but now his inky-bright black bluish stare narrowed on Waylon: “Ok goody two shoes! You probably wouldn’t mind blowjobing blood from livestock but I do okay!”

“Miles.” Waylon quietly said, “We should just go back. We can’t really undo this and will all this rain...”

“Oh shut up your morality thumping your prick.” Miles yelled.

Eddie nursed his shoulder with bled more as Miles had hit him there again. Looking on. This didn’t feel good to him at all.

“Miles. Just.” Waylon touched his shoulder, nervously, “Come on. Okay.”

“Get your hand away!”

“Darling!” Eddie screamed

—   Miles had hit Waylon right on the side of the head. Waylon looked shocked and dizzy. Held his side.Then he just half-closed his eyes and slumped as Eddie rushed towards him.

It was at this time Miles’s eye started getting back their natural colour. _I….I…no…no…Waylon…Waylon…_

Wallie was also so silent. But then there was a low pitched _weeping_ from the Walrider. 

Miles then screamed: “Waylon!”

But before he could go to him he saw The Twins come out in a flash.

Tim grabbed roughly Mile’s arm. So rough he could break it.

Tom just picked up Waylon with Eddie, “He is still breathing…” saw Waylon blink unconsciously, “I think he just had a bump.”

“Darling Waylon…” Eddie stated then yelled, “Let’s take him back. I will clean his head! It’s bleeding! I will sew it up!”

Miles looked as Tom and Eddie ran back.

Looking up he saw the angry and disappointed look of the older Twin: “I think you have done enough for one night Mr. Upshur.”

 

* * *

 

Wernicke was eating a small dinner. A few sandwiches with a slice of red beef on the side. His assistant, Lewis LeBlanc, had said that he did not eat very well and that having a rich meal may improve his strength at times. But his age had made appetites a bit redundant. Didn’t know how to foster one to the new formula of being in a wheelchair and at times drooling unceremoniously. Feeling as though his joints made no sense, seeing his privates look as though they were a bug’s aedeagus rather than mammalian genitilia, seeing his bones look like some rocking-chair would ask for its hinges back — yuck geriatrics and all the fucking crap that came with it (the word “came” made him almost make a pout, yes he was being a perverted old man but he wished a bit of youthful romances). Rudolf reminisced happily about that one special time he danced slowly and with some intimacy with Alan Turing. Turing had thought it good fun, though the tension with them was starting to flower, and at one point, neatly near the start of his neck, closest to the corner of the jaw, he nibbled and sucked, making Turing sigh a bit. Then kissed him. Turing got nervous but Wernicke was inflamed. This beautiful, ingenious man he so desperately love, unrequitedly. Of course that kiss flowered nothing. The fossilised seeds made his bones cramp with disdain.

“LeBlanc, your assistant cum butler, or was it Vivian Slavic? Damn, or was it Sasha Ouellet? You have too many assistants. Well. I think it was that blonde Nazi-cliché looking man LeBlanc who said that you would be dining a bit better tonight.” A man with long platinum blond hair, sharp jawline and cheekbones, with a pair of platinum coloured glasses, came in front, his hair tied in a loose braids of sorts, “I am happy to see you are eating fine Dr Wernicke.” Then with a chaste enough smirk, “Though I hope you eat more of the bread and less of the nostalgia.”

Wernicke annoyed asked, “What do you want Henry?” Then snorted, “Your sister already is being a bitch no need for you to say anything else and be a bigger bitch.”

Henry Granat looked as handsome as his twin sister; only despite the sharp tones of his face he possessed a softness of expression, a casualness, that his twin did not at all possess, “Well, you must have our reports. You must know Danielle Austen?”

“You mean your sister’s new sexual plaything?”

“Well, she has miscellaneous talents.” Henry giggled and coughed then to accentuate purpose, “As you know she is an excellent researcher. And a good monitor for all our new projects. She is a chancellor overseer of sorts down in our labs. You know that a new clearance infrastructure has been made to compensate for our recent failures? Project Walrider has been pushed back a bit for budget cuts…well, it is still operational but the lucid dreamers allow other potentials to be explored as well. We cannot solely focus only on Walriders now can we? Well, Walriders need hosts and _suitable_ hosts are _always_ hard to find. Especially for full-fledged Walriders. Not those rejects we have put in the requiem.”

“You are doing rhetorics. I know Project Walrider has always had difficult stages and that it will have budget cuts. All these scientists and investors act as though you are teens following a fad I mean instead of sticking your noses in dedicated studies you fuck around with what you term ‘new possibilities’. Is that what science is all about a gig-lamp of flaccid progressions?” Wernicke almost banged his fist on the desk. Then decided against it. Henry smiles a bit condescendingly as if questioning ‘are you sure you won’t break your hand doing that?’ and Wernicke gave a sneer to his condescension which made him respond a bit more positively.

“So, for science to go really forward we need Virginia Woolf quotations and penis metaphors?” Henry cocked his head, “I am sorry but I think Woof would find that image contradictorily conveyed if you were mimicking her taxi allegory for androgyny.”

“Oh you know what I mean you smartass brat.”

“Project Walrider is still operational.” Henry smiled, “We just wanna multitask. Nothing wrong with that.” Then he pronounced it, grandiosely, but with flare, “You will be glad to know that Project Voluspa is pretty good and may one day help balance Projects Walrider and Valkyrie with some of our foremost work.”

“I hear one of the lucid dreamers is David Annapurna?”  Wernicke looked mildly stimulated now, “Wasn’t he under Trager’s care?”

“It is most unfortunate at times when the pupil excels the master but Da Vinci would have it no other way.” Henry shrugged.

“Project Valkyrie should have been disbanded since the disturbing death of its one time coordinator, Dr Newman.” Wernicke was cold, “You know I do not know how he would allow such a pathetic woman as Mrs. Jackson to kill him without hypnotherapy.”

“Dr Newman’s pride in his confidence that his patients were hysterical women. Unable to get a good fuck and orgasm was surely a very misogynist approach. A philogynist approach, as myself, as you know I adore Helen and her talents, would know that Mrs. Jackson could have potential.” Henry looked contemplative then smiled sheepishly, “But project Valkyrie’s success is still on the run is she not.”

“I do not think that Shirley Pierce is still alive. A woman afraid of firearms and with husband problems would surely be a lost cause amongst the wide, wild world where romantics are as anachronistic, ancient and obsolete as the Argonauts.” Wernicke calmly sliced through his slice of beef. The sandwiches were eaten. And he then sipped on his drink, it wasn’t exactly wine red, rather he must have blended some white wine with shredded red grapes. An odd tasting thing but his palette did not always welcome the ordinarily exquisite these days. An aberration from norms suited him because he hated the feeling of loneliness and was loath of all its ordinary injunctions. Red wine welcomed the idea of lovemaking and embraces. Truthfully, following Miles and Waylon reminded him of his past flame, Alan Turing, who had loved so deeply. The “love of his life” in a way. And he missed Alan so much. Yearned for him so much. The empty library with its small crackling fireplace and smell of freshly written notes (Sasha and Lewis were so nice to type those for him as he did not always like typing but loved to see Alan using the rudimentary ways type could be achieved) pressed in elegant journals of study, which he also scribbled and edited, made him think of these nights working with Alan. Wernicke had touched him, felt his body warm, restful, he so wanted him…even now thinking of his beauty, wit and body made him ache.

“Says the old romantic himself.” Henry’s smile was a code, a lashing of teeth behind the lips.

“Excuse me?”

“This is one of the same libraries you once asked Turing to work with you in.” Henry gave a knowing smile, “ I wonder if sex was  also on.”

“Shut your mouth before I have it shut for you.” Wernicke warned.

“What’s the matter grandpa?” Henry came closer to him, almost like a coquette, “Hot and bothered by an old flame; is it that strong…” looking down at his pants, “To try to make embers stand up tall as forest fires…”

“ _Verpiss Dich_!” Wernicke almost ran his wheelchair over the feet of Henry Granat, “Fuck off I say again! You bastard with your bastard mouth!”

But Henry cockily smirked, “Is it that lonely, your penis?”

Wernicke fumed but then was startled as Henry grabbed him by the throat and picked him up and looked at him. It wasn’t a squeeze but it made Wernicke nervous. Henry paused a bit, then slowly went near his ear, “Gustav…did Turing sometimes use your middle name, is that not cute?”

Wernicke almost stabbed the fork he had been holding but Henry slapped it away, “Let go Henry, what are you doing?!”

“You looked a fine thing in your prime. Nervous but blonde hair…so pretty…” there was a glint, something alongside the craze, “Nothing bad grandpa…” Then smiled, “Can I see it grandpa…?”

The words tumbled out and Wernicke gasped as he felt an odd feeling permeate his mind as he saw himself younger, fitter and as a youth. Naked and against a bed tied. Then he felt a hand on this young self, down there, it rubbed a bit. Wernicke spasms, “Henry, Oh no, Henry, no, Oh God, look, Henry, my body…my body is not that body anymore…please…I don’t wanna…feel that…” Wernicke was out of breath. This was not…this was not…happening…that odd power he had…like his sister…

“You know something Gustav?” Henry carefully stroked Wernicke’s head, “I miss her so much…I care about her so much…why did XX1 have to leave?”

“XX1 doesn’t probably exist anymore…” Wernicke tried to push away. “Our success is XY2 and the other lot you know —“

“XY2 is XY2 and that is the _second_ success, XX1 is always going to be the _first_ success…”

Henry just embraced Wernicke very hard. There was no longer any weird images in his head. No longer that weird feeling. Yet Rudolf Wernicke felt a bit wet. It was not urine. And he was very frightened.

Henry just stroked his head: “Dear, dear Gustav…see you are not alone anymore…”

But Wernicke could not stand it. This violation of his privacy, his space that he thwacked Henry and tried to loosen the “hug” or whatever it was.

“Gustav, Wernicke, what would you do if you could be young again? If that was possible…?”

“What do you mean?”

The fire blazed and mixed with the mischievousness in Henry’s eyes, “I mean you know…that is somewhat possible right…? So, who would you like to bed _first_? Waylon or Miles”

 

* * *

 

“You are late.”

“Apparently, Henry _sexually_ assaulted Dr Wernicke.”

She looked blank, “ _What_?”

“Oh c’mon. It’s not so bad but Wernicke has taken a bit ill. Lewis LeBlanc has punched Henry in the face.”

“Helen, I don’t know who is more fucked up, you or your twin brother.”

“C’mon Jennifer. It’s been too long. Shall we fight? Or do the things that lovers do?”

“Stay away.” Jennifer Roland pushed her, “I came here as a courtesy to our past history. I hardly want anything to do with Murkoff or anything of the like.”

Helen smiled for a bit then grabbed her hands and kissed her. Rough. Hard. Making Jennifer scream between the assaults. She then shoved again. And this time she punched Helen.

“Oh dear…” Helen wiped her chin and her mouth, “You are so angry.” It was not really mocking but a statement.

Either way, it made Jennifer furious, “Fuck you Granat! You ungrateful twat!” Then calming down, “I should have never come here. To your apartment. I didn’t want to. I don’t know what the fuck to do.” Theh more seriously, with arms folded, as though both shielding her body and making a demonstrative gesture of power. “I came here to tell you, ask you, are you going to arrest me? For Murkoff’s tactical and economic divisions?”

“You come to the den of the wolf to ask if you are to be eaten or not?” Helen’s German accented speech was grating, harder than Henry’s whose voice was more mellifluous than hers “You are a strange lamb dear Jenny.”

“I am not a lamb!” Jennifer spit out, “Not sacrificial or otherwise!” Then with clenched fists and stance less poised she screamed, “I am not gonna bullied by some bitch!”

“My, My…”  Helen darted near her and grabbed her chin, a bit strongly, but her fingers delicately circled. “You sound like that weird killer, Eddie Gluskin, but I think you were already my bride or something like a groom right?” Licking her lips. “Do you not remember? Jenny?”

Jennifer, Jenny, looked out, “I am not remember that time.” She swats away Helen’s hand, “I was a fool to be once in love with you. You are crazy. In all the mean and narrow ways. Like a pipe beating on flesh, cracking bones. You are more surgical than the scalpels I used to perform autopsies on all those poor people.”

Helen actually looked disturbed. Her eye widened. It was obvious. Jenny’s words totally, unpardonably hurt her. The sting became a form of blush on her cheeks: an unnatural kind of embarrassment to her. And her eyes were huge, like two planets eaten by a black hole. Her eyebrows creased down like sunken submarines, fins popped, missiles rusted or half-burst on the belly of its own beast. It was like drowning. It was a shit feeling. Helen’s heart palpitated for a good two minutes. Then her eyes became more brimmed with something less damaged and more like ruins volatilely lashing at time.

“Well, if you aren’t waxing metaphors from your tongue I would be making you black and blue like Van Gogh’s Starry Night.” Helen snorted and the grinned, half-heartedly with a more maniacal twist, “How is that for your handbook of analogies.”

“You never loved me.”

It was too much. Helen just stared: “You are crossing the line.”

“If you loved me you would be more honest and open with me.” Jenny almost screamed, “You made me a mortician for something absurd. I mean how can you, could you, hurt me so? You didn’t even warn me about the Walrider.”

“I got you out with Eisner and some others.” Helen put a hand on her hip, “That should be enough Jenny.”

“It’s not enough!” Jenny was crying, shaking, “It’s not enough!”

Helen went and hugged Jenny, “I see you are rattled by all that you witnessed…” Seeing her shake, shrivel then puff out, “You are having breakdowns right? If you come back I swear I will oversee your recovery program myself…I will help you in any way possible…”

“I am never coming back!” Jenny pushed Helen and trembled, eyes wide, mouth askew, “Never, never, never…what you people are doing is beyond morally bankrupt.”

Helen raised a brow but then exhaled, “I hate seeing you like this…” Then she smirked a bit, “But if they tell me to get you. I may have to come after you Jenny.”

“Fuck you Helen…I knew you never cared.” Jenny shuddered and was walking out, almost stumbling, looking defeated.

“You know I called you here for a reason.” Helen called out after. They had been in the dining room of Helen’s house, which was large and the interiors looked like an estate, though it was a vintage apartment, Jenny looked at all the luxuries with a bitter gaze and started walking faster, “I hadn’t called you for tea  though I was hoping to be polite.”

That ingratiating way she used that word made her turn. They were lovers once. She could pick on the subtleties. A trait best not unlearned. For now.

“Here.” Helen lightly tossed a file, to her, it was actually heavy-bound and Jenny grabbed it with both hands, “Maybe, you would like to know what’s in that.”

The headline stated: PROJECT WALRIDER + PROJECT VOLUSPA (PROJECT VALKYRIE in remissions)

“What…?”

“It’s not the whole literature.” Helen laughed softly, “It is just highlighted specifically on certain tandems. I had one of our head researchers do it, Danielle Austen.”

“Why are you pontificating with her name?” As she knew the subtleties Jenny glared, “You think I care if she is your girlfriend or otherwise?”

“No she is just my fuck-buddy-buddy or something along those lines.” Helen looked a bit annoyed using the terms “girlfriend” and “Danielle Austen” in the same sentence, then chirpily clasping, “But she is coming over late. If you want a good old threesome can help those rattling nerves.” Seeing the irate expression made her say, “No…?” then she just shrugged it and was warm again, “Well, that file has some information on two people: Shirley Pierce and David Annapurna.”

“David Annapurna?” Now Jenny looked a bit flabbergasted, “I did an autopsy on him.”

“No dear you did not.”

Jenny looked alarmed, “A switch?’

“Yes. It has some things to do with Trager and some execs. David Annapurna now is one of our three little Indians so to say.”

Jenny put the file near her chest, eyes a bit focused, “David Annapurna has become a lucid dreamer?’

“Precisely.”

Jenny then started walking towards the front door, “If Trager is still alive you know right they both will class. And something tells me in some form you wanna see who wins.”

 

* * *

 

 

The warm fire crackled. Once man made fire something like magic; that is where the semantics and semiotics of the Promethean flame came from. Prometheus is a popular mythical figure because of his association to things both ancient and modern. Probably because he was not a bad guy and he was a bit rebellious, superficially, that would work. But thing was Prometheus was one of the mythic god that seemed to be like human. Or, had the capacity to connect with humans despite not being a human. Then there was also the structural analysis of how modern man was birthed by the womb of the forge: industrialization, the blacksmiths and alchemists of old could have a mythic genealogical tradition based on that sole figure. Also, it didn’t hurt that Prometheus was a guy, _a man_ , if he was a woman like Athena or the Valkyries who pretty much were forgers too well — I guess men wanna look up at other men. Maybe, it is an archaic sense of kinship? After all women also like to be Venus, sounds silky on the tongue, rather than Eros in fact Aphrodite is more stronger name and is used for aphrodisiac is it not? Maybe Aphrodite as a name sounds more androgynous? Well Bjork did write Venus as a Boy…that kind of outré music wasn’t always bad to him.

 _What am I thinking about? I need a good fuck and smack or something…_ Jeremy Blaire thought.

Returning to fire. Jeremy thought how fire with its vibrating movements could not really be substituted by electricity. Both the homeless and the rich make fireplaces. And there was something retro or strange about a fireplace nowadays. Some people called it naivety for “golden age” and all of that. Some just called the fascist or artificiality of neo-consumerism. The wood was real. They did sometimes put in larger logs than needed. It was kinda more showy and stylistic extravagance at times. But with the storm out you realise that the fireplace was nice. After all, it had a nicer ambience than an air conditioned space.

Jeremy thought of sex…looking at fires…some primeval Rorschach test…he saw mouths, bodies, intertwined limbs, massive cumming…some of him was hard…some of him thought of making love near a fireplace…with…Waylon Park…

 _Fuck, dude stop acting like hormonally confused boarding school boy_ , Jeremy almost glared, _You **weren’t** that guy when you went…you fucking made fun of **that** guy and you bedded even teachers waiting for a good cunt lick…_

But thinking of Waylon brought out something soft yet fierce in him. Imagining Waylon writhing underneath him as he carefully licked his neck, that austere neck always busy doing shit other than getting licked. Tracing a small line over his sweet, nicely muscled abdomen…math geek but kinda fit…touching his cool slanted sides, masculine and so durably, deftly arched. Jeremy would then nibble on that neck, on the ear lobe, tug playfully the fine hairs on his head. Waylon would already be moaning. Fuck, he usually liked the hard, rough, straightforward kind of sense…I mean just slap the cock and let’s go right? Waylon looked at his eyes. Those silver misty eyes. Jeremy felt his cock owned. A rare triumph but a triumph indeed. If Waylon only knew that gaze that penetrated murky sweetness of his silvery dews would make him so fucking overdrive. And then he would plunge it in, feel the muscular prostate gland beck and call like a sea-siren on some high. Adjusting the angles, each moan a diction on what was sour and sweat. Waylon would look hazy and so would he. “Mr. Blaire…” he might say then a bit coyly, “Jeremy…” that one word would fuck him over, win him like roses and candy, the gentle way he caressed codes, if he used that way to caress his name…And then they would French with their tongues, Frenching in a way that made palates hungry, a bit too slippery, too fast…ok Jeremy just…yeah…some balance will be formed when they salivate less…as this was not only fucking…he wanted to possess Waylon…not as his bitch…he wanted to possess Waylon…as his lover, a love…this was all too new for him…how the fuck was he seduced by a goody-two-shoes…but he wanted to know that goodness, that softness and fluidness of masculinity…that dextrous way he was man and also beyond the men he knew. And Waylon coming all over them…all that cream on him and his lover…tasting it from his abdomen…and Waylon’s stomach…guttural yet deeply beyond viscera…kissing him chaste fire like saying…that he might be falling for a dude, _his_ math geek, _his_ **beautiful** programmer, _his_ untamed prettiness…Waylon Park…

“Uh…I didn’t know you found fireplaces so captivating.”

Jeremy had sighed a bit. The fantasy so good his tongue could burn on it, it felt so damn close. Good thing he was not so hard, visibly, what would he explain to this fuck right in from on him…Oh God…what the fuck?!

Habrok had come almost close…to his crotch…his fucking crotch…and looked as though he could smell…his arousal…

Jeremy almost dashed out of his chair…fell off it half…

“Habrok.” Darian chided, “Do not be rude; besides how dare you fraternise so easily in front of me!”

And Jeremy did fall out of his chair seeing that Darian got up and threw his tea right at the Walrider’s face. It screeched as something burning meshed with its inky flesh; it mixed and burned with his coating. Habrok looked completely devastated. Made whimpers. But Darian went forward and kicked his face.  The Walrider felt it. Jeremy stared blankly as Darian, oddly dressed in some old British Victorian sailor suit for adolescent boys (blue and white contours with a black ribbon in front with a gem encrusted in silver, gold and ruby), looked completely out of picturesque order as he pushed and shoved and pinched and perfectly bullied his Walrider, who defensively raised its hands. And then a punch and soon the Walrider was down. Screeching and howling. It caused the TV to turn on to static then turn back off. Darian started stomping its face as Habrok screeched and cried.

Jeremy adjusted his pants, and fixed his t-shirt, pants were actually linen brown and his shirt was light blue. As he carefully looked at Darian stomping on his Walrider whose nano-swarms shifted and turned with its cries, _Well, that is one sadistic fuck right there…_ Jeremy smiled, _Not bad, can get used to him…though animal cruelty of this sort is mildly questionable_. Jeremy stared on as he felt Darian was being excessive. Too much of a good thing and all of that right? Jeremy almost thought.

“I don’t care if he smelled horny and sexual!” Darian shouted suddenly making Jeremy do almost a blank dart with his eyes. “I mean.” Darian stopped stomping his Walrider and smiled, “I mean you don’t have to _smell_ that to understand _that_. I mean…he _looks_ like he is ready to fuck anyone within some yards away.” Darian stuck out his tongue and let it hang, Jeremy looked confused at this gesture, “I am _no_ Waylon Park…” Darian suddenly teased his own tongue with his own fingers, “But I can give you a nice _little_ suck down below… _long_ and _good_ suck…make yah think you went to _another_ galaxy.”

Jeremy didn’t know if he should barf or be flattered. Looking out of sorts for a few minutes before plainly saying, “No. Thank you. It was kind of you to offer. But you were here to conduct an interview right? Discuss our targets. I apologise for the delay. But I think we should be getting started.”

“I can actually help you think better for a bit.”

“If you are going to order coffee be my guest.”

Darian smiled mischievously as Jeremy had the professional air of flirt-swatting. As though his comments were mosquitoes and flies he was easily hitting a badminton bat energised bat-zapper of doom.

“Fine, how about we have some coffee. Some Frappuccinos.”

“Classic black will do. It keeps the ambient perfect.”

“There is also a perfect storm outside.” Darian looked out the window, mindlessly he stroked Habrok’s fingers, who happy that his host was paying attention to him in a positive way, started licking and sucking the fingers of the stroking hand, “There is also a perfect storm inside here…don’t you think Mr. Jeremy Blaire?”

“If you talking about beating the crap out of your Walrider, which, I must say, was an impressive feat that I can find commendable in a corporate review, “Jeremy had his gaze on, no looking away, steely and confident, “Then you are spot on, as one of my ex-colleagues would say, _buddy_.”

Darian slapped away Habrok’s hands. His fingers were now covered in a mucous and Jeremy looked a bit fazed at seeing the amount of Walrider saliva on them, “Why don’t I order some stuff. Black coffee, some biscuits, I will order some English toffee frappe…too…a selection…” suddenly Darian did the most bizarre thing and Jeremy mouth cracked open a bit. Darian licked the mucous on his hands, sucked on them a bit too. Jeremy did not know what the normal reaction should be. There was cross-section in complete “what-the-fuck-fuck-this-shit” and instantly vomiting out all that he hadn’t eaten yet.

“Uh, please, could you…uhm…not do that…” Jeremy found himself saying. Seeing the slippery greyish-black liquid mixed with the white of Darian’s saliva. _Fuck, I think I should I just should leave…_ Jeremy found himself thinking.

Darian then wiped his hands expertly, knowingly, on some big wads of heavy tissue paper.

Then he picked up a phone and chirpily ordered the foods. Jeremy was a bit sceptical. What was he supposed to do? _Fuck, I feel like I am i **n** a trap…I mean I should not be in one I **make** traps like **this** dammit…should I sit down? _Jeremy just sat down with a thud. _This was actually, fucking, **unexpected**. I mean I usually am not in the receiving ends of sexually deviant behaviours, yeah saw it happen a lot in VIP exec lounges, all manners of fucks around the sun. But this is pretty like work-in-progress…I mean is this guy some kind of freak who even gets it on with… _ Jeremy’s eyes widened with the realisation, _With **his** fucking Walrider! Thanks a lot you cum-bucket Wernicke! You never mentioned your protégé was a weird fuck! I mean that surely was not just a gay thing…it was something else…_

The food came in and Jeremy hardly noticed. Darian looked perfectly calm. Jeremy was calm too. Despite this being a bit foreign he was used to strange and foreign situations. You don’t become a Murkoff exec with a militant prowess without courting those bizarre radicals. Yes, he had propositioned by men and women alike. Some subordinates, male and female, had given him a good suck on some recommendations. Jeremy took it as extras of a job. Never was completely a relationship kinda guy so he didn’t mind fucking anyone pretty enough. Some guys were on the last but mostly women. Liked women more. Men were like meh so-so to him. But this strange Lolita dressed up boy sucking his fingers was kinda like not expected. 

“Did Waylon ever show signs of being, well, rebellious?”

“As you know from Andrew’s notes not really.” Jeremy answered with ease, not letting his guard down, “And from my background research and observations he seemed pretty harmless, well organised, I am pretty surprised that he was able to amass a bit wider than general feeling of Mount Massive’s techniques that were legally shady in a short time. I guess empaths huh? Miles Upshur has a similar style. That guy has written so much badgers on about the profit-laundering Murkoff. His most recent article was about Murkoff exploiting water crises around the world. Guy acts like a saint superman to our Lex Luther. Last time I checked Lex doesn’t really have a kryptonite but Clark suck-on-heart man Kent does.”

“The water crises is a serious situation.” Darian looked on plainly, “I do not agree with Murkoff taking advantage of it.” Then his eyes glazed a bit with a madness that made Jeremy stop drinking his coffee and just stare, “After all water is needed in the blood. How can Murkoff be so callous? More water means you got to kill people with a better splash pattern. And clean water and air should be necessary for life; even a Walrider’s life.” Then he absentmindedly caressed Habrok’s head who looked pretty darn happy as a clam.

Jeremy got his bearings, drank his coffee a bit slowly, “I am not a fan of it either. But you know Murkoff execs are of many types. I mean some of them find this financially pleasing. Me, I prefer these kinds of divisions. Speaks real power then bullying Third World people. You must challenge yourself. “

“Is Waylon a challenge?”  Darian’s smile cocked his brows and made his lips all Cheshire like.

“Well, Waylon is a subordinate and to be honest…what I want to do with him sexually, romantically or platonically is none of your business.” Jeremy half-folded his arms. That gaze also coupled with a smirk which made Darian shift a bit in his chair. “It is true your ways are not known to me. It is apparent you are a sadomasochistic fuck you probably fucks his Walrider too. And your sexual tastes and appetites are not really in my kitchen of sorts. As in I don’t care. I am here to access a model that will help you psychologically profile Waylon Park. You already know much that he is a good enough will-powered individual and that he has a moral compass and a much fleshed individuality to boot. Waylon was not a collective cog machine sort of person in the corporate scale. And I think both Miles and he chose freelance credentials to be as much as being a free agent is possible. It could be this very reason that Waylon felt comfortable, added Upshur’s perseverant nature to destroy Murkoff, contacting him. Now Upshur I have studied his files, but don’t know personally as much as I should —“

“With all due respect Mr. Blaire,” Darian interacted as he slurped on his frappe, “You don’t know Waylon Park that _personally_ as well.” Habrok was scowling at Jeremy. Aware that his host was being insulted.

 _You douche bag_ , Jeremy smiled, “I understand that but it is important to note that contextually I do not need to be as _close_ and _persona_ l with Waylon Park. That is pretty _common_ sense wouldn’t you agree?” Darian lost his smile a bit, Check and mate kid, “With Upshur let’s say he is a persistent little journalist and we got both the people on our side and these guys so I wasn’t too concerned. Waylon became, as Gladwell explained it, the tipping point to Upshur’s already ardent pastime to try to screw us over. But from what I have been reading Upshur does do thorough research, he is good with taking large amounts of work even if he has his own sloppy organisations, he doesn’t mind getting a bit dirty while combing stuff and is more of a pre-planner than Waylon. Those are his strong suits. Not to mention I had the unfortunate encounter of knowing a Chris Walker a bit much and I must say it is commendable that he escaped that killer cold bastard as much as he had. Got some good weights on his shoulders for that kind of work.” Then he continued, “I will say that Waylon is more measured and patient that Upshur given the predicament they are in those qualities may be winners. Miles Upshur is aggressive and from what I know having a Walrider around with loads of aggression from a host is not generally a good thing. But then again Upshur has done more than Billy Hope. And Upshur does have the tenacity to know probable allies like he chose Father Martin. I think Miles can read people’s intentions a bit better than Waylon. Those qualities are excellent too. If you are running around as a fugitive.”

“It is _also_ common sense to know that we ourselves are a bit of the fugitives ourselves.”  Darian mindlessly sipped another frappe; Habrok had wiped cream all over his black-inky face and Jeremy was finding it difficult to keep a straight face. Didn’t know if he should spit out his coffee or just laugh. The dichotomy of a Walrider being a merciless killer and this _thing_ here was something that was unfavourably conflicted. As if knowing that he was making a scene, peripherally, by the side, Darian suddenly slapped Habrok making Jeremy cough as the impulsiveness of it was not his structured chaos style. Actually Darian followed both method and madness, and made method in madness with madness in method. It was tricky. Of course, Jeremy had had though some thoughts on Darian Siegfried Stockblitz Leitner or Daryl as he was also shortened to; a nickname that was meant to be endearing. Though he didn’t wish to delve in them now.

“So?”

Darian finally looked mindful now. Stopping his frappe sipping as if questioning.

“Being a fugitive or an exiled person is not a sentimental thing for me.” Jeremy asserted, “It is due to Murkoff’s wellbeing that I am in this position thus it is Murkoff’s responsibility to take care of me, feed me, make me live lavishly — I don’t expect to be treated as an expendable exec. I have done all due courses. I need my comeuppance and…if you must know I do need to sleep more than 8 hours a day for all this time. Because that Walrider, XY6, or whatever it was, it did almost rip me from the inside. And I have had internal damages. Murkoff found me valuable enough and I did survive because well I was always a persistent motherfucker so I guess God favoured me. I still need a lot of meds. So quite wasting my time and yours. You and I are may not be hierarchically in the same position but I trust both of us have done all we can for Murkoff and its associates.”

“Richard Trager.”

“What?”

“You quoted him, he used to say _buddy_ right?” Darian smiled, “It must have been nice to have a friend. I mean around.”

Jeremy looked a bit bored at him, noticed that Habrok was stuffing biscuits in his mouth like a kid on a sugar rush, “Trager and I weren’t really friends but I enjoyed his company…not sexually…”

Jeremy had to add that because made a tongue-sticking out gesture again that really was inappropriately angled at him, “Too bad. No fun.”

“Not really…” Jeremy became cool, “I mean…” he stressed on this, “Trager did get the job done I mean…I handled Waylon quickly. But I must say though he was tardy I did not mind his slow approach with a Mr. David Annapurna. I think it was good. And Rick had good calls like that. Whatever happened to him later…was a shame.” Jeremy looked at his coffee pensively, “I mean, I did not realise he had delusions of such grandeur that he subjected himself partly to the Morphogenic Engine and then Murkoff decided why not just use him as he already got the test. I never thought that he would become a Variant.”

“Were you saddened?” Darian took a biscuit out of Habrok’s hands as he looked a bit questionably as Darian put it in his own mouth making Habrok drink from Darian’s frappe cup, “I mean you must admit that he somewhat deserved his own demises right? Too much of that idea is pretty boring.”

Jeremy cocked his head and smiled: “Even if I did think that or not…” Looking so nicely up from his coffee, “Does it matter? Trager’s dead right? Killed a bit indirectly by Miles Upshur for a survival thing. I was pretty surprised Richard jumped between two different disciplines so unceremoniously. I think Mount Massive has that effect on you.”

Jeremy knew what was happening. Darian was also making a model on him. He was also being interviewed alongside the content that needed to be interviewed. It was annoying but corporate manoeuvres could get to you at times. It was not totally a non-classical tactic. However, Darian seemed somewhat genuine in some interests. Like it was a double entendre.

Suddenly, the Walrider, Habrok, was beside him. As if all this while he couldn’t have taken his eyes or sense off of him. Jeremy felt it. There was something murky alright.

Darian with proper etiquette clean his face with a wet tissue and used another to rinse his hands of cookie dough.

Then with pretty seductive steps approached Jeremy who looked keen on not looking away. “About that offer…” Darian looked at Jeremy’s crotch, “Can we say for now…it is semi-non-negotiable.”

Jeremy felt the long hands of the Walrider grab him in a grip that was not fatal but meant vice. It had made his arms into long laces, or ribbons, Jeremy stayed calm and stated: “You do know right that I am still a company exec.”

“You were talking about hierarchy earlier on…” Darian touched Jeremy’s pants, his dick, beyond his fabric, pressing on it, to make it prominent, “Hierarchically I am not your junior, not your inferior, my words do have some importance in our consortium.” Darian smiled as he saw an outline of what he wanted, “You don’t have an identity there. Call it familial inheritance or merit-based inheritance. I am your superior.”

Well, Jeremy didn’t completely know that. At this stage of present he wasn’t at liberty to keep tabs on his affiliations or rivals or enemies. But he wasn’t going to be pandering to this guy any time soon. “That may be but then do you really need the Walrider to hold me Mr. Superior?”

Darian smiled, “Maybe not.” And he signalled Habrok to let go. But then suddenly Habrok slashed on Jeremy’s shirt making a tear and making the exec almost jump, “I am sorry but I think Slice has not really been that friendly with you. You want him to make it up to you…” 

Jeremy looked in complete shock as Habrok pulled out a long inky tongue and licked his chest and stomach and salivating all over as though he was ice cream. “Fuck man.” Jeremy said a bit coldly, “This is kinda disgusting you do know that right?”

“Oh c’mon Jeremy, I know you are kinda tired and bothered so…let us help out huh…” Before Jeremy could protest, Darian took down his pants a bit, and licked his penis, “You are using crutches right? You can’t completely walk all the time right?” Darian indicated the side corner of this living room that they had been on, “Why not lemme make you feel good and forget your downers.”  Darian looked pretty aroused at him, “You can treat me as a bitch a bit.” Without warning he took all of Jeremy in his mouth making the other give out a short yell, which was amplified a bit as Slicestorm ran its tongue all over Jeremy’s chest and started sucking at his nipples. Jeremy gave a horrid realisation to which Darian chuckled and actually talk, “Don’t worry, he doesn’t wanna drink your blood. Why do that when we can milk ya, hmmm, ohhh…” Jeremy jerked his hips a bit as he felt the fellatio all over and the Walrider was good at sucking and licking and he was feeling it, “Ain’t I a little cutie? Dressed like a complete hard on…” Actually Jeremy could contest that, he wasn’t really for that fetish much, “Why not pump it a bit in my mouth?” Darian chuckled. “Let all those frustrations go. You can think I am Waylon if you want or just you know blow steam.”

The idea was tempting. The Walrider’s hands became lacy again and they tickled his muscles and his abdominal lines making him moan a bit. _This is kinda disgusting, should some experiment out of some fucking weird thing be doing this to me?_ Yet he had been _so_ fucking _horny_. His hips jerked as he roughly grabbed Darian’s hair, _Fuck it, just do him a bit_ …and he started thrusting.

The Walrider looked excited and sucked on his nipples harder. Jeremy ignored the sick feeling that he didn’t want that piece of shit touching him but rocked on.

Daryl smiled: Guys like you are so fun to be fucked by and fuck with…

Amidst the spurts of seamen which Darian gulped and his Walrider _also_ tasted. Darian went up to Jeremy’s face and kissed him, “You are so yumilicious.”

 

* * *

 

 

Miles shivered. Rain droplets fell from his clothes.

Wallie just looked slumped, tired and freaking _depressed_.

Tom came by, “We bandaged his wound… there were many first aid supplies in the kitchen cabinets. The gash is somewhat deep, there is no sign of concussions.” Miles looked a bit surprised at him, “I know some basic medical things so does my brother. Caring for yourself is important especially well you know…we are kinda naked all the time…”   then a bit rigidly, “Miles, you have to observe those frustrations of yours. Though we like you we also like Waylon. And we cannot see him, preferably, get destroyed by your anger multiplied by the Walrider’s insane amount of wicked drives.”

That last sentence sounded a bit archaic.  But it was correct. Miles and the Walrider was bonded and bound and both of them still shared many feelings, emotions, transferences of thoughts. Maybe it will always be like this, Miles reflected miserably, Instead it is not a conscience speaking loud it’s a daemon or something daemonological or something…Miles recollected that Wallie had stopped and hadn’t really done anything wrong afterwards. That was even the worst part.

“Waylon is waking up, he is groggy but he can talk a bit…” Tim came in.

“I have to see him!”

“Miles I highly say ‘no’…” Tim looked at him, that surveying look that was given to him at the asylum too.

“I just have to see him!” Miles reiterated. Desperate. Heart throbbing! Shattering as glasses piled up on as deck of mocking cards meant to not be a house but a portable calamity.

“Like hell, you will.” Eddie Gluskin growled almost barging forth, “Keep your monstrous self to yourself you filthy demonic whore!”

“That’s enough children.” Tim actually chastised, “Look, Miles, I am gonna be right behind you and its Waylon’s views that matter…”

Miles nodded.

The room was dark. Waylon seemed to only like the small ambience of the window. And the small lamp to be on. He looked completely disoriented. _He looks a bit wrecked, Oh God, why…? Miles felt tears in his eyes, I never meant to hurt you…that last time you helped me…why was this time so different…? Why couldn’t I just stop…?  What the hell…Fuck, Fuck…_

Waylon got up a bit. A bit too fast, then held his head and fell on the bed again fast. Miles wanted to run to him but Waylon looked at him. His face ashen and indescribably sad and suffering.

Miles felt the sting.

But he thought he needed action because the silence was fang sharp and it was being sadistically aloof and apathetic.

Waylon looked at Miles. Miles smiled softly, sadly, relieved: “I am so glad you are —“

“Miles, I don’t wanna talk to you for the moment. Can you please leave and lock the door. I wanna be by myself.”

Miles couldn’t move for a moment. Was Waylon **pushing** him away? Oh no…no…no…

“Please Miles!” Waylon shouted making The Twins rush into the room, “I just wanna be alone!”

There were tears of rage in his eyes. Miles slackened. He was feeling so defeated. But he nodded and then The Twins helped escort him out. Miles felt devastation. Bone0breaking, marrow mangling devastation, he wanted to cry too but it seems he was dried out of the fevers of adrenalin and anger that he had spent on Wallie.

“You hurt Waylon darling.” Eddie, with a bandaged shoulder, wearing also sharp incisors and canines, as he glared at Miles, “What _sort_ of **monster** are you?” Enraged he walked up to Miles, keeping only an nano-inch of nose between them, “You are as _bad_ as the Walrider or **worse** and I _cannot_ see Waylon suffering like this. He is, amongst us bastards, a **decent** human being!”

Miles wanted to spit in this guy’s face. _Who the fuck was he? How the fuck he know Waylon — and **darling** … **What the fuck?** Don’t…wow…_ Miles was angry but also felt…strange… _This fucker freely calls Waylon darling that means…are they together? What? Ex-flame? Has to be I mean he is married or separated or something right?_

Eddie was slowly, gently pulled back by Tom: “Mr. Gluskin as much as we respect your care for Waylon you must sit down and not aggravate the situation.”

“Miles, we should leave Waylon alone.” Tim instructed, “All of us…” Looking at Eddie as he groaned a bit, “The man needs his space. To think. I think you said he is a mathematician of sorts, correct?  A thinking man or woman ought to have thinking space.”

Miles didn’t know what was more horrible. Looking at Eddie wanting to tear him or knowing that The Twins were more maturely handling the situation.

Miles just walked away. His Walrider who had been cushioned near a wall, a bit more stable than before, did not follow him. It seems both beings needed space from each other too.

It was now later at night.

A quiet 3am lulled the house. The Walrider was now the friendly spectre silently haunting not doing anything uninhibited for destruction or chaos. The Twins had retired to their room and despite Eddie’ s wishes to see Waylon a bit had told him to do the same. Rest was important. They had also taken Miles’s pair of keys and kept it with them saying they could better manage for now.

The storm and rains were now gone. A silver light entered. A half-full moon appeared and reappeared as clouds of the downpour dispersed to other sky-roads.

Miles perched near a wall and looked out…propped open a window…heard quieter and cool breezes coming by and…he felt solace but also sadness…he felt drugged by the presence of nature but also the feeling of guilt…this conflict…it was very well rooted.

“So much for raining all night.”

Though the storm external had receded his heart had memorised their ferocity and wept and clashed as they had done. Miles, teary, sighed into that nightly register:

“Oh Waylon…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes what will happen to Miles and Waylon now? OoooOOooo Cliffhangers Not to mention will Eddie now steal Waylon's heart and well a bit of a love triangle no?
> 
> I am building a sexual tension. I know our main characters hadn't engaged yet but...I thought too little exposition and too much romping may not work totally well for this story. I know they might have just had sex and all that but because of the Walrider I guess both might postpone. Well they had their dalliances with masturbation. Eddie did too. I thought I wanna to show how aware the characters were of their bodies. What is that awareness style I found that important to explore. It is imperative to understand, even for me, what kind of personalities I am dealing with. Well, if you have managed to chew through this 10k marathon of a chapter please look at the table of refreshments and you can see frappes, coffees and the works — no that is NOT the same tray served to Jeremy and Darian. 
> 
> Thank you for the support guys. Comment below to let me know what you think this far :)


	12. Delvings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty Eddie and Waylon centric. Thanks for saying with me all this time. I know my chapters are too "introspective" or rather think too much on the interiority of the characters. I am sorry if that drags. This is a WIP and also I wanted to REALLY FLESH the internal lives and ambiences of all the characters involved. Action is also inhibited because they are hiding and all that. They are also trying to actually surmise and survey their situation. I think that was important. But I could be wrong. I wanted to put Miles here, after all the denouement of the last chapter to a large extent demanded that, but Miles also has a lot going on so making a Eddie and Waylon chapter and putting ALL OF THAT in was to be TOO MUCH and damn longer than this.

****

** Delvings **

****

In the midst of his pillows, Waylon felt the tissues of cotton mixed with tissues of tears. Not sure on which diorama he should settle to ease his mind. There were mathematically induced formulae that came and erupted in his head like some firecrackers and he just took them as they were. Feeling, suddenly feeling he could cry forever. _I don’t know if I am angry at Miles, or, am I angry at me or both? It comes and goes and I don’t know which one should win over the other or if there are supposed to win and if I am supposed to feel…that any of them makes…oww…_

Though he had not acquired a concussion, his heart hurt louder than a hangover-bitching on and he wanted to cry more and more. _What I am supposed to do? I just snapped at Miles…he shouldn’t have pressing on the Walrider after I made calm the culling of the cows…oww…thinking hurts…oww…but, I mean I don’t think it’s totally his fault…still I am mad…I have every right to be angry and I am just too unhappy; I feel like I was a deck just waiting for the landslide to eat and break down…I didn’t do anything positive…I failed Miles…I failed myself…I…I don’t know  what the fuck I can do…all this is shit…I mean I am here far away from what I know and I just don’t wanna be…I wanna just snuggle and sleep with someone I love, maybe Lisa wouldn’t mind, and just see my boys and just play games with them…I feel so empty…I feel I am so out-of-sorts…so oww…calm down Waylon, calm down Waylon…I just it’s too hard and I don’t know how to make it manageable….I just feel useless…_

Two mathematical formulas came to his head: “If √x, √y are quadratic surds and if a + √x = √y, then a = 0 and x = y” and “If √x, √y are quadratic surds and if a+ √x = b+ √y then a = b and x = y” respectively. Basic algebra. Well a bit complex. The word “surd” like the alphabets in in algebra have a syntax in language too. Lisa’s friend had told her that “surd” also means “a voiceless consonant” and unstressed word something akin to probably “p” in “psychology” which probably serves a function similar to a quadratic surd. The thing about disciplines as many times in math the “domain” or certain platform as a chessboard is pretty fixed. It is beautiful to know that math has the integrity to explore so much even in a dimension with limits but…lacking can come from being too narrow. Maybe he didn’t expect that it could both those two formulas at the same time. Mapping them out would be difficult.

The fact is those formula already work on a hypothesis or rather a prerequisite that well that “x” and “y” has a root over their heads and that they are to be quadratic surds and that if only “a” is involved then “a=0” but “x=y”. Second formula discards “a=0” for there is a “b” and as we hold in sequences that a does come after and that “x” does come after “y” (in basic alphabet sequence as well) “a=b” because only “a” can equal to a “0” when that sequence script is unavailable or rather taking a walk somewhere else. However, this is not a deficiency of “a=0” because “a=0” when there is no “b” is pretty elementary because without a sequence that is pragmatic that is efficient besides in math the word zero does not mean something highly negative. Zero in basic math in the origin of the number line and its pretty fine piece of work, it is the crux and spine of the number line, so “a=0” is pretty understandable. It feels then “a” is closer to an origin maybe not decipherable  but maybe something that is not totally a priori but close to a beginning  and “a=b” means that is has that but can sequence itself some more. Those two, “a=0” and “a-b” are important cardinals of both math and also humanity: a need for history and a need for continuance, an endurance. Thus integrity and endurance “a” and “b” respectively. Then what about “x” and “y”? Obviously those meant something too then right? I guess “x” and “y” could be history and continuance interchangeably. You needed a base, a grammar to actually them mould to some ungrammatical foray. What was he doing? His head hurt but he was talking about…Well a quadratic surd is a pretty basic mathematical…oww…

 

…well, it helped. It always did. Though his headache was pounding and he felt a dizzying essence of losing himself. What he could feel was…feel some control…some understanding…that sweet taste…call it psychosomatic or whatever but felt like something wafer and saccharine in his mouth and he enjoyed it…no, it wasn’t bleeding…tasting again…he found no traces of the copper and iron needed to make blood so bloody…there was aftermath chill…the rains he could no longer hear…he shivered and so covered more better in blankets…he wanted to know…what do to next…why was it so _important_ …? Why not just sleep now…is it really…important…Fuck Miles and fuck his Walrider…fuck ‘em both to some shadows or some shit…and…oww…fuck this shit…oww…maybe, he still wanted to know what was best for Miles and him…he did want what was for…to them…the best…what was the best…for…them…

 

…slept Waylon.

 

 

* * *

 

Eddie did not easily worry, or, rather he had not the understanding of worry for a long time. The first panic, or surge of something akin to it, was caused by the fact that Waylon was wrangling around on the beam while he was trying to…yup, hang his darling, and darling, sweet dear darling, was too heavy…in a long time something had been amiss…he was already shocked by the speeches that Waylon gave…that he didn’t understand love and “kisses” and caring…well, he was happy that he was almost fatally impaled. That Waylon escaped. It joyed him to know that he worried truly now, that he was worried or feeling something now for the safety of someone he actually started to care about…it was a sudden joy but not perverse or conflicted…it made sense. After long something made sense, sweet, clear, simple yet complexly layered sense…

…he cared about his dear Waylon.

Yes he had to “his” dear Waylon in the loose yet powerful way of knowing that someone could be “his” — it wasn’t that possessiveness that entailed pathologies. It was something different. Like a proximity, a space, between two people. He had been so happy knowing that Waylon would speak to him. That Waylon had took the time to reach out to him. That beating he gave was also something he liked in the sense that he was happy that Waylon was kind and not a pushover. And he was also happy that he could cry in front of Waylon. Yes, he was being a bit selfish too. He didn’t want to lose Waylon as after a long time someone like Waylon, kind and understanding, patient and intelligent, had treated him as another human. Not patient. Not Morphogenic engine subject. But a person. A human. And he liked it. And after a long time he saw human and humanity in another person so much that it ached to see that beautiful thing hurt. Or, be any way hindered.

Eddie truly felt Miles and his Walrider would hinder and/or hurt the humanity he saw rhythmically pour out from Waylon Park. And by God he would try his damndest to protect it.

The reason he felt this was not purely suspicions. Eddie had seen the Walrider a bit and what it specialised in doing. It was beast that excelled in killing more so than him. Another person coming close to that creature’s expertise in killing was that Chris Walker guy who, he thought, whilst going to the vocational block thinking it would be good, as Chris didn’t seem to wanna go outside much so, was an expert in doing carnage and running after his “piggies”. Yeah, the vocational block was pretty much where he wanted to go anyway so it wasn’t necessarily something he did it out of the fact that Chris was someone he wanted to avoid. But yeah that man knew how to rip bodies from heads, or heads from bodies. It was like some weird film in motion. Sometimes one watched awestruck as without effort that hormone addled beast just picked up people and RIP with both the meanings attached. Well, the Walrider had that capacity too. Only made you undecipherable mounds on the floor. Pretty barbaric and intense.

And he definitely didn’t want Waylon darling ending up like that!

Yes _his_ Waylon, _darling_ , yeah calling him _that_ may not be suitable all the time but he didn’t give a shit what the others made of it. Because there was no other thing he wanted to call him or see him except a “darling” —though how that definition appealed and meant to him was pretty ambiguous at the moment he knew he preferred it a lot. Like he preferred Waylon a lot. Eddie had not known how to bond with others so readily. Be it with women or men. Or any third gender. Eddie’s entire identity was fractured. And he did not know what a man like him was supposed to do. At times he wondered if _he_ was supposed to dress in the clothes he made or have them on someone _else_? Either way, he had once or twice worn a dress he made and looked in the mirror. Didn’t feel entirely uncomfortable. Nor did he feel like _him_ — whatever _he_ had of what could he call himself so he took them off.

But now he knew better to force Waylon into those clothes too. Waylon shouldn’t be wearing those clothes. Those were _not_ obviously him either. Well, he had decided to figure out Waylon’ style a bit and decide if they could go shopping. Eddie knew about clothes and thought why not use them to figure Waylon out too? Eddie understood fabrics, the structures and symmetries they weaved and how the cossetted threads became unified as one. A bit more easier brought down than the threads of the human body but he liked the patterns and the cuttings and the lack of stench and cutting cloth was violence without violence as in you could slash and tear and know that as piece. Maybe, it is a landscape that allows you to be violent. _A violence not permeable in the body? Fuck, that sounds kinda messed up and you know that Gluskin, Eddie,_ Eddie crooked his neck a bit.

All this time Eddie had been sitting on his bed. His wounds had been properly bandaged and he had used a wet towel to cleanse the blood. Already he had had a deep shower. And he wasn’t going to go back in again after well he just recently had a run in the rain. He had taken off his wet boxers and wore a new pair and left those to dry on a chair near a desk. This house was very prim, proper, well-designed. Eddie knew that Waylon and that wretched Miles probably found a reliable friend and ally for these accommodations, Thank God for that. Eddie did not mind dark, dingy places. Rather like some ghoulish thing akin to the Walrider he liked the space of ruin but with quietude. Where he could work freely. Well, work did not mean doing _nasty_ stuff; he liked stitches and fabrics and the vocational block became his little rustic, rusty sanctuary. Eddie crackled his neck now felt the malleable knots of the spine and muscle coordinate fluidly and finely. Eddie then just, with a sigh, lay on the bed, flat backed. A part of him wanted the closeness of Waylon. What would it _mean_ if Waylon and he _shared_ a bed? Would it be bad? No, it need not mean — well, _sexually_. They could just snuggle and take each other’s warmth. Eddie missed knowing a body next to him — more like _wished_ as he hardly had ever slept with anyone in his life. As in sex had been pretty caustic and simple and not many people. The only bodies he did know where…well, there was his dad and his uncle…and that was not knowing a body that was him getting raped…and then there was mom and she made it unbearable because sometimes he had visible bruises and she just acted all was fine under the sun or night stars and that made him lose his appetite to even go close to her.

Yet, going back, this house was pretty cosy and pleasant. It had all the furnishings needed and more. Eddie felt he was more in a small building of importance like some offices or a library or something in a university than a home. The glint and well-polished wood with some complimenting marble were more than efficient and luxuriant; they gave house and home new meanings. As though it was a place where body, soul, mind and emotions were also honed with relations to the wide expanse of nature outside. Eddie’s home had been okay. The small suburban home was pretty well-managed and neat. It wasn’t grand but the kitchen smelled nice and there was food around. Even if they were poor his mother did manage to stitch good upholstery and make nice the beds, couches and sofas. Learning stitching had first began when he wanted to dress bruises or his mom did. To that it became something easy for him and he preferred that place that place where stitching and threading made small miracles that did not decay. That world of pretty dresses and tidy suits and all those apparels that made women smile and men decent. Where there was no numbness behind the pattern, no bluish angry scar or bruise to remind you of last night’s abuses, where everything was symmetry, pure, simple, and good and ordered. And he had had loved it. Though it wasn’t really supposed to be something men were always supposed to do. Men stayed with their dads and other males to do their work with them; or, so his dad and uncle said. His dad was losing favour of him as he got older. But his uncle was always happy. After all he was a bastard. His dad was a career paedophile. His uncle was some other sort of disgusting thing. It felt good hurting them. Eddie wished he could hurt them too like they did him. But he was disgusted by them and preferred the distance.

 _I have never really loved anyone like truly romantically… Not to mention not really with another man…what is romance I wonder…it doesn’t seem to be the shit I thought. I know this should make me angry, it somewhat does, but I know…I am somewhat relieved…I feel that I may have a chance at something…if I got things wrong then…could I get them right now? I mean, figure them out, peaceably…?_ Thought Eddie in the dark and quiet. Sitting still casually…Then there got the pain!

“Ahhhckkk!” Eddie screamed out almost too hard.

Eddie saw that his abdomen was bleeding… _Fuck, Fuck…Oh Fuck!_

Eddie almost coughed out blood. _I shouldn’t ran with this kind of wound. I already exerted too much energy! Keeping Waylon off then that Miles…this isn’t fully healed!_

Eddie limped, his vision was getting dizzy, _This is fucking fantastic! I think I need help…Waylon_ … Eddie was used to tending his own wounds. However, he wished at times, someone would care about him and take care of him. Because though his mother had once done so he couldn’t think of it as something well…being taken care of. Because it was his mom also hiding how he got hurt and so he didn’t consider especially kind or caring.

Eddie struggled to walk but then he just got the still wet boxers and pressed it against his abdomen. It stung but he gritted his teeth. Going near the sink, he got the towels and also pressed it against his wound. He knew if he didn’t do this the wound might open more and get worse.  Eddie realised he needed to bandage this again but heavily. Eddie clambered to the bandages and used them effectively seated on the bed. He also knew moving around too much was not good for his wounds. So, that was also something he needed to remember. After all, I have to look out for myself too in this. I hope Waylon darling will understand…

Bandaging the wound and taping it took around 10 minutes because the wound had become aggressive and cranky for his toils. Eddie was feeling dizzy, I don’t think I lost a lot of blood or anything. But, I do need to eat something. I can’t lay down or fall asleep like this. I mean it’s dangerous. I can seriously die or something. Thinking of all the risks Eddie patched up his wounds. I know I was against moving around but I have no choice. I think the fridge in the kitchen can have something.

As Eddie walked and was about to open the door he saw Waylon, red eyed and shaky himself, almost about to knock: “Eddie?”

Eddie looked really relived but Waylon looked at his bandaged abdomen and softly cried: “What happened?”

“This wound is still kinda fresh. You know the place I got impaled in when I was trying to hang you.” Eddie said it a bit casually, chuckling a bit, knowing it may be ill humour, “I mean I ran tonight so…I need to eat…” he added seeing Waylon make a face at the “hang” part, “I may have lost blood…so it’s good if I…”

“Stay right there. Sit down on the bed okay.” Waylon looked purposeful, “I will come back with something to eat and the first aid kit.”

After approximately five minutes Waylon came back with some cookies and the first aid box. “You got some antibiotics, some painkillers in here, I suggest you take some.”

“Did you have some?”

Waylon’s eyelids flickered: “Maybe, I should take some more.”

“You probably need to keep some cookies too.” Eddie offered, “You can’t have such meds without some food.”

Waylon nodded and they both ate together. Eddie noticed that the door was a bit open, like slightly cracked. He understood that Waylon did not trust him completely. And given recent events couldn’t find the heart to get offended. They were on the bed and Waylon looked tired. Really tired. Probably gonna go to sleep any minute tired.

Eddie looked that the bandage on Waylon was a bit heavy; at the left side of his head. Eddie looked nonchalantly at the sewing thread in the first aid box: “Waylon, let me stitch your wound.” Waylon looked at him a bit confused, “I don’t think The Twins did a bad job but I think I can do a bit better; I have expertise with this you know.” Then seeing a light of realisation in Waylon which was both disturbing and somewhat uncertain, “If you let me…”

Waylon moved farther aside on the bed. Eddie could see it was natural reaction. A defence mechanism. And he couldn’t blame him. “Uhmm, Waylon, I mean no harm…” Eddie said this tentatively, with genuine caring, “Your wound needs a few more stitching. I will keep my distance, a distance that make you comfortable.”

“You do have at least fast enough reflexes.” Waylon seemed to suddenly, dazedly, go into a memory repertoire, “I mean, when you were chasing me around you seemed to know how to. Like it was primal instinct. And you also knew what moves to make and what not.”

Eddie felt, tragically, a bit mortified. Waylon was right. “Yes. Waylon.” This was a definitive answer, shame was a bit precluded though not entirely, “However, the vocational block was also my territory. This isn’t and I am a bit clueless here as you.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Waylon mouthed a bit numbly, “Your spatial intelligences on these things are higher than mine.” Waylon looked slightly at him, a bit blank, but his eyes shone a little, “I envy you that you know, the way you can adapt when violence is around you.”

“Waylon, darling, _listen_ to yourself.” Eddie was a bit irritated, “Do you really _think_ that being good enough in that counts for _shit_? _Look_ at me goddammit. _Just_ look at me and think if that is really _enough_.”

“Well, they are not exactly untrue. I think you can manage yourself better in those situations. I am not good enough either where I am supposed to be.” Waylon eyed Eddie who looked a bit stunned, a bit uncertain, “Fine, stitch my head. If you try anything I will shoot that needle right on your dick.” Waylon wasn’t really rude so Eddie just smiled a bit.

“That’s fair enough, Waylon darling.”

Eddie slowly cleaned his wound, with adequate distance on the bed, his arms a bit stretched, and sewed skilfully and rather elegantly. His trembled a bit here and there. Waylon may have noticed but just breaths at that.  Eddie trembles out of nervousness.  His darling has allowed him such an honourable thing. He wants to make Waylon happy and feel proud at his work. “You seem really angry…” Eddie spoke this a bit quietly as he expertly sewed. Waylon had monitored all his moves, the pacing of his gestures and had his hands ready if he needed to punch Eddie in the face if he tried anything. Something told him Eddie was safe enough now. But he never wanted to take chances. After all Eddie had tried to kill him. And he had seen that Eddie at his worst was seeing something really worse; putrid, rotten, inhumane and _inhuman_. That picture he could not forget so easily. Though he wasn’t going to write off Eddie Gluskin too. That man did run after him in the rain as well; got wounded in the process. Still, you have to keep your defences up. It was more a necessity and not an insult. However, helping him was out was a contrast to his usual manipulative and violent personality where he had drugged him as he deluded himself in thinking that Waylon wanted to “consummate their love” — yeah Waylon was fucking scared and disgusted that his idea of consummation was his penis fucked up by a buzz-saw. It was truly something he knew he would have nightmares on for a time. But this…this was something memorable in the nicest of ways.

 True, people may not change easily. That was true. But some _could_. Though _would_ they was also a question. It was still not apparent or elucidated which category Eddie Gluskin was in. All Waylon knew as long as Eddie wasn’t violent, manipulative, misogynistic, misandrist and inhumane he could give Eddie a chance. Waylon was not being holier-than-thou. This was just the prudent choice that even The Twins or Miles would take. Besides, this was something he needed to do. It was not actually stress-free for him. It put him more up on the shelves to be totally honest. All these factors made him very unhappy. This was biting more than he could chew. The Twins were a bit whimsical. They seemed decent enough but they were Variants as well as Eddie. No one knew what twisted lullabies that Morphogenic engine had whispered to them. It was true that he had been strapped down as well but he wasn’t so inculcated in the process long enough to become a Variant. _Thank God_ , was all he could think…didn’t know what else to say or do. Because aside the basic parameters that surrounded God in this didn’t know what else could have made sense. Saying he got lucky was grossly inaccurate. He didn’t know what his fate was. As he noted earlier Fate or fate or fates were something abstracter to him than imaginary numbers taking a wave at each other and passing through Primes. Fate was something that had both drive but also well factors that could not be understood. If one thought Fate as Schrodinger’s Cat or Galileo’s Law of Moving Bodies in a basic way one could ascertain some _attributes_ of Fate. That it is a process that involves you, your individuality, but also a collective value of probabilities and elements that you may or may not know off. I guess that is what Fate and fates had more disciplinary distances than semantical ones. Fate was usually a very religious thing whereas fate or fate was considered more without a dogma or set of rules. But he didn’t, as he was a mathematician and programmer by study, trade and profession and passion, think that anything really coordinated without any sets of rules. Well, the definition of rules was also well tacitly variable. Most things followed a sequential arbitrator or logarithm that could be called basically a pattern of rules. But even chaos theory had his own rules too. Because the generation of chaos probably depended on the rules of prerequisites. After all even clouds can be called chaos too but they are not unless they are drought bringing or storm bringing. Also the classical definition of chaos was improper at times in mathematics because math did not consider chaos an enemy always.

Though Waylon was permeating such things in his head he had not zoned out though his heart like a fuck from hell. And the stitching had elicited him making “owws” and “uhhs” and “hmms” wherever it was needed. Eddie thought Waylon was reluctant to talk to him so he didn’t want to pressurise him into talking. It made him tremble more. Both out of fear and irritation. Eddie was a killer who had become attuned in coaxing answers out of his victims whenever _he_ saw fit and perfect. But that was the thing.  Eddie knew Waylon was _not_ a victim as in not a “bride-to-be” and he also knew that in the world of mutual exchanges this was not the best way to do things. Eddie knew when he killed, now more than ever, that he was a selfish bastard. After all, Eddie wondered, what had those women really done to him? Some had not been interested in him and that is _okay_. After all would _forcing_ an _interest_ mean anything? Eddie felt ashamed. He was doing the same thing in a different way wasn’t he? Or was….his mother and father and uncle had acted they _cared_ and he saw what that deception and violence led to. _God, why the fuck did I want that sort of fake shit from the people I killed…?_ It hit Eddie. And he didn’t know the answer.

“I am actually angry.” Waylon saw Eddie stop a bit from stitching and realised they both had their thoughts, “I am angry at you…” he trailed it and saw Eddie move his hands away, both as surprise but also as a precaution as if he did something wrong, “…As in I am angry at you…Miles…The Twins…myself…this situation or situations we are arrested in…” Waylon looked at Eddie easing a bit, it was partly a smile, “I don’t know what to do.” Then he dropped the half-alive smile and looked at him concentrated, “I am just the math geek, as Blaire would reference me from time to time, I am just Waylon Park. I don’t know how to summarise what I am feeling. I am not sure if I _should_ be telling _you_ all this too.”

“Is it because I am an ex-serial killer and mutilator?” 

“That _ex_ part remains to be tested right?

Suddenly, Waylon goes for the apologetic, “Sorry, that was really rude of me.”

Eddie rested his hands on his laps a bit, twirling the thread, “After all I have done _rudeness_ is the least amount of resistance and punishment you can show towards that me. I am not complaining.” Eddie smiled a bit warmly.

“Despite so,” Waylon touched his head, its half-stitched, “I shouldn’t be so vehement and take advantage of it.”  Waylon then also did another assessment, “It’s also Eddie. I don’t know if I should be well, you know, telling you all this. Aside from opening up to the potential wrong person, no offense…” Eddie nodded a “no” for “none-taken” then Waylon continued, “I don’t think you will be able to understand it. I am not doubting your intelligence or anything I just…I doubt you can understand.”

“What are you doubting then?” No malice, Eddie genuinely asks.

“I am doubting you as the cardinal you I know.” Waylon explains, “Eddie, no offense, but you aren’t really a person in your adult-life who had assessed his desires or needs much and well you also give into anger and violent impulses a lot. I know you may know patience but you don’t exercise it with people. I have never seen or heard you do it.” Waylon actually shivers as he remembered what Eddie was blaring at him, sweetly but so sadistically: the chilling “you’ll run out of places to go, darling I know you are not like the others” then with so much ferocity and bestial rage, “or are you just another whore” spitting it out. Waylon had been so terrified. At that moment he was so scared; he couldn’t understand such a man who was confusing genders, biology, sexes and everything. Even romance from his tongue sounded like blotched and dripping insidious venom.

Eddie noted the shiver, “I know…you are right. I don’t know…” Eddie breathed in deep, this was hard as fuck, so fucking hard, but he decided he will say it, “I don’t know how to deal with people realistically.”

Waylon noticed the tone was hesitantly honest but he still tried on it: “Being my yes-man won’t curry any favours from me.”

“I am not trying to do that.” Eddie was a bit tired now but he knew he really wasn’t in a position to make contraries. Waylon knew a bit more about him than he probably was happy. As in, he knew his blatant deficiencies. Of course, Waylon must have known them from their encounters but also it seemed that he may have read a file or too. He wasn’t angry because it was the norm of the context they were in and also he was no innocent. He was a criminal. That was the truth. And he had what the doctors labelled as “sociopathic” tendencies towards females mostly but also to other men. “You are right Waylon.” Eddie looked at him now, “I don’t understand. I don’t perfectly either. I don’t really deal with people the regular way. I do just well, kill ‘em, or some disgusting shit.” Waylon almost blanched at that statement, his face turned a bit paler, Eddie thought, _This guy is pretty decent_ , “But I mean should you have that problem?” Eddie asked, “You are really pretty decent and all. I mean you are not fucked up as me. Should you be feeling like this? Also, Waylon darling, you are so much more talented than me.” That is what he truly felt, his eyes lit up in a way that Waylon was a bit surprised at, “You are good with people and know how to understand.”

“Look Eddie, I don’t think I am more talented than you.” Eddie smiled at the modesty, “I mean I know zilch about threads and stitching and you are better at first aid than me.” Eddie could only keep the smile, it wasn’t crazy it was heartfelt, “I don’t think I understand the lot of you. You are not just head cases to me okay. You are all complex human beings and you have complex complications and emotions. You guys beat math in a nutshell and then some over.” Waylon sighed, “I am probably at my wits end or probably I need to contemplate more on this.”

“I don’t know about you but you understanding _that_ is a _big_ part.” Eddie silently acknowledged, “I mean no one has not looked at me as a head case. Or, a killer.” Eddie then grumbled a bit, “Can’t say I blame ‘em that is what I _am_ exactly. But you are trying to not _only_ look at that right. I think, I think that’s important.”

“Thanks Eddie.” Waylon acknowledged, “That was nice of you to say.” Waylon smiled a bit and Eddie smiled back. “But I have to do more. I know I can’t just be what I am at the moment. A lot of things has changed.”

“I think _you_ , the _way_ you are…” Eddie almost blushed, “Is _fine_ , much better than anyone I have personally met.”  Eddie raised his hands slowly as in to finish the stitch and took a nonverbal confirmation from Waylon to continue.

“Well, thanks, but…” Waylon perused the situation, but all this thinking was making his head hurt, “I don’t know if I am fine or not but…I do know this that I need to become much more than fine if I want to _survive_ this and also…” Waylon cut off a bit, making Eddie stop to listen a bit more intently, though Waylon was not unobservant of all these moves, it tired him but after all the events that had transpired, including Miles’s ordeal, he rather be focused, “Because I think I need to owe that to myself too.” When he said that Eddie quietly resumed stitching.

Owing that to yourself? What does…what does that mean…? Eddie just looked a bit mummed.

“You are _wondering_ what I meant.” Waylon looked as Eddie intricately finished the stitches.

“Yes, I am.”

“Let me do some taping to your wounds.” Waylon instead diverted and slowly and cautiously, with the same distance, used the white medical tape to assure Eddie’s abdomen from at least some further damage. “You feeling a bit better?”

“Yes, loads, talking to you made me calm down a bit. Too much panic is bad for a wound. Blood moves too quickly, maybe.” Eddie slowly had been nibbling on the cookies, they were banana and hazelnut, they tasted pretty good, “Also eating is good…you don’t have to stay away. I trust you with my body Waylon darling.”

“It’s okay.” Waylon looked sincerely to make it known it wasn’t a rebuff, “But I hardly think it’s fair I am cautious around you and also…” here Waylon gave a bit of an ambiguous smile, “How do you know I won’t hurt you? This place is pretty vulnerable you know.”

“You don’t seem like that kind of person.” Eddie actually had to admit Waylon was a bit unpredictable.

“I did say _hurt_ , not _kill_ , and so I can be at _least_ that _kind_ of person.” Waylon didn’t smile anymore. This showed reluctance but also that if the ultimatum came maybe he wouldn’t hesitant. “I am happy to report though the blood has stopped rushing out.” To this he was warm again, “What a relief.”

Eddie looked at him, “I am happy you are not a pushover.”

“Huh?”

“I am not at all unhappy you well kinda threatened me because I admire that in you. That you can be what you need to be though I know you think through it much better than most. And you aren’t a sadist or you enjoy hurting people. I know that you must be at least partly like this with Miles.” Eddie pretty much said what he was feeling he had to, “Look, I know he is much safer than me technically, but he now possesses the Walrider. And that is making him a more dangerous person.”

Waylon blinked, “I find it hard that _you_ would use the word ‘sadist’.”

But Eddie just shrugged at that and said: “I don’t think you should be _anyone’s_ pushover. You are too _good_ for that.”

“It’s kinda hard for me to see you are saying that.” Waylon looked slightly suspicious, “But I guess I got your angle.” Then he was somewhat casual. “I don’t know if I can be what I need to be. Or, that if that is always the way I should be. I am figuring this out. Maybe, you are too.” Then he stressed, “That brings me to what I owe myself. Back there, in Mount Massive, I wasn’t prepared. I don’t think you can prepared for things like that or even happy things but I don’t wanna make a repeat performance of me back there. I wanna be more focused, astute, maybe a bit more disciplined, anything that may help myself and also I took responsibilities on this so I just can’t abandon them. I am not saying that I may not. I just keep at it until I can’t or until all of this is done.”

Eddie looked at him, he nibbled on the cookie; he looked a bit away. “I really don’t know how to answer to that. I don’t think I have ever really heard someone talk like that.” Eddied mused on it, “I don’t think I have felt raw dedication for something like this from most.”

“It is still raw. I don’t know if I can go through with it.” Waylon reminded, getting up, all this thinking was getting to bother him a lot, “It may _only_ be words at the end.”

“But those words seem to be coming from a genuine place.” Eddie reassuringly spoke, smiling, “I have to respect that Waylon darling.”

Waylon nodded, “It’s already close to dawn. I feel like I am at that fucked up asylum _again_ …” Eddie looked worried, “Living whole bunch of lifetime’s worth of literature, math, chaos and psychological profiles in a surge of hours and days. Remarkably, a human can attain this, retain this, _endure_ this — a fucking supercomputer would breakdown, cry and fucking eat his own cogs. All this thinking is also making me hurt.”

“We should just go to sleep Waylon darling.” Eddie didn’t advance, he looked away. Truthfully, he actually felt pain at Waylon’s pain. It wasn’t just sympathy. It wasn’t him saying some lines. Like those “I hate to see you suffering without me” crap (he didn’t say this out loud) because this was the real shit…he was with Waylon darling in the same room, same space, and in a way was shown his suffering and also experiencing it together in a way but he couldn’t fully get it. That line now really felt like a “fuck you” punch in his own face. _What a loser I am, so this what really suffering together might mean…it’s painful…but I am happy, really happy, that even if I can’t fully understand he thought it okay to share it with me and I can learn from it, I want to…maybe, maybe know how to be that me I once was when I was a kid…not really fucking dead and feeling like shit all the time…_

“I guess.” Waylon looked defeated. It felt as the sun and moon disappeared.

Maybe the killer Eddie may have taken joy in this but even so Eddie now saw without fucking madness and adrenalin pumping near his head and face how defeated _really_ looked _like_. And on his Waylon darling it looked so fucking _awful_ and debilitating that he wanted to cry. Truthfully, with certainty, wanted to cry. He couldn’t stomach it. Waylon was the man who challenged him. Who made him want to know what real intimacies and “kissing” was all about. How _can_ he look like this? And _knowing_ he had some part in it made him fucking hate himself in a way that wasn’t body dissociation. Rather, it was body consciousness, an association. No, it wasn’t misplaced he was a killer and a mutilator who had also wanted to hurt Waylon darling. Finally, he felt a surge of all the heinous things he had done came back. And he was feeling unbearable. Like fucking hard to breathe. Like he was the one who didn’t deserve to live.

“But I must thank you…” Waylon smiled, signalling his head, “You stitched this. It was hurting more. I can’t blame The Twins. They did a good job. But you made it better. And you stayed with me. Thank you once again.”

And he felt he could breathe again. Deserve to live again. Oh God, Oh God was Waylon an angel…was the thing in his head. All he could say, could mutter and mouth was, “It’s the least I could do.” Though he knew that was not true. Not the closest to it. Because he felt Waylon more. Waylon much more than just a night of dressing his wound. Felt…wait… _owed_ himself more? The sudden realisation riveted him. An awe in him. Is this what Waylon was talking about? Being a best of the most positive traits or traits that endured and sustained him in a way that did not require blood, mess and killing? At one point it was his everything to kill. How pathetic and fucking foolish. And all this eons of time he had wasting by killing others. Killing others and also hurting others. Cowardice. Sometimes it was because he couldn’t hurt himself for he already thought there was nothing left to hurt. That he was all gone what he could have been. How fucking annoying. When he was still living he could have tried other ways. Fail but try again. After all wasn’t he now a _success_ in being a _failure_ to _himself_? Nothing he did could exorcise the hate he felt for himself; killing surely didn’t help in the long run. The respite he was looking for…now he realised it can only come from changing himself. Changing what he thought was “vulgar” or not. Changing himself for himself. Because the person he had become wasn’t someone he could truly count on. Forget other people. But, he did want Waylon darling to count on him too. So much so.

Eddie had just smiled at Waylon too.

And his darling was gone.

Hopefully, going to sleep peacefully.

…and in his own dreams Eddie thought …and in his own dreams Eddie thought what it must be like to sleep next to a convalescing Waylon. To know closely those lashes, those eyes, the movement of his mouth when it breathes in sweet, amorous sleep. And he was smitten by these images as he crossed that stage between lucidity and sweet abyss, other universes...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not propose to know the mentality of serial killers or their rehabilitation. This is fiction and I am being explorative. Most serial killers don't change so they have their own fucked-up reasons for that. I love Eddie's character so I wanted to know if he, specifically him, did want to change why would he. This is not a model for other killers or crap. I am including this DISCLAIMER because apparently some people like young girls romanticise Eddie. I have not done that. As you can see Eddie himself KNOWS THAT HE IS A MURDERER AND A MUTILATOR. This doesn't really change what he did. What for MY INTERPRETATION OF CHARACTER I said he acknowledged his crimes and yearns redemption. This may not absolve him of his crimes as he was also said to be a rapist. It does, however, mean for my interpretation that Eddie knows he is wrong and also wants to reject that evil in him. From a monster he wants to be human again because humans are stronger than monsters; he's beginning to realise that. 
> 
> Also I have been having some great conversation with the writer Tien and he is inspiring me a lot. It's really good to have someone who also loves Outlast as you and writes fanfiction on it talk to you about it. Tien is a darling (pulling a Eddie with a non-Eddie feels XD hahaha). 
> 
> I hope you guys liked this chapter. Please comment, it keeps me happy to update sooner. Miles-centric chapter the next one. Hope you guys are doing good and thanks for reading.


	13. Intermissions/Intervals ± Insertions= Isolations, Interactions ± Idiosyncrasies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a mammoth chapter O_O It's chapter 13 and is close to 13k long and so it is A HUGE UPDATE so I really want people to REALLY TELL ME WHAT THEY THINK. I don't know what the hell possessed me but I just felt I had to write all this.This chapter also is pretty Miles + Walrider centric except the last part which is Waylon +Eddie centric. This chapter explores more or less budding relationships and relationship styles amongst the characters mentioned. Miles and Waylon are on a hiatus on talking with one another. So, gives a chance for others to interact and build a rapport and also always a sweeter, longer/longing reunion ;) 
> 
> Chapter talks A LOT ABOUT DOMESTIC ABUSE, RAPE AND VIOLENCES AND STUFF SO BE FOREWARNED.

 

** Intermissions/Intervals ± Insertions= Isolations, Interactions ± Idiosyncrasies  **

 

Miles was unhappy. That was an understatement.

To say that he was merely unhappy would surely be an understatement. Because he was pretty unhappy, miserable, depressed, feeling a nagging sense of devastation. All those emotions under the sun and moon that made you feel like you were a piece. Literally, he wished he could sleep well. But he had been perched in the living room, the larger one downstairs that was open to the other rooms in the vicinity. It was large, had great wood furnishings and had some wide landscape paintings that he didn’t necessarily register at the time. At first Miles had just perched near the window feeling the cool, crisp after-rain air that melded petrichor with the slight tangy taste of autumnal-summer period. It had some wafts of soft heat, some afterthought on humidity, punctuated by the bristling alertness of the trees. After all that rain they were focused as ever. Maybe inanimate-like but beautiful, versatile lifeforms.

 Miles actually found the idea being a tree now quite appealing. Anything must have been more attractive than being a Walrider’s host and a man consigned to feel the need to be impulsively emotional and angry. It was this unexpectedness of cathartically accentuated eruptions that made him question what was really going on. Was he only angry due to these present ministrations? Or, was his underbelly being scratched for other reasons as well? Fuck, man…Miles had to confess one thing to himself. He has always been a bit difficult in expressing himself. He had reservations, privations, wasn’t quick to saying what he felt. And this has cost him, it had in the past. Even cool, casual sexual relationships had fallen apart when he was being an unintentional or intentional dick to some girl or at times guy who just said that a “maybe” would be nice. He wasn’t abusive which may have made it worse for some as they couldn’t categorise him as someone to be dealt with via pure ignorance. But yeah he could have handled it better. _Yeah, could have handled that better with Yesfir too_ …Miles looked at his jacket, _I remember I bought this jacket thinking about her…_ but that was a long time ago. _Wonder what grandmaster poet is doing_ , Miles thought, _Can’t really know iambic pentameter that well but knows how to freestyle; that Persian queen of words…Yesfir Nova Wayra…yeah half Native-American too, helluva of a combination…I miss her now…could listen to her slam-jam right about now, she also knows what to say, at the right time, like Waylon_ …

Miles didn’t want to think about Waylon. _What am I, a domestic abuser now? I hit him…I hit him…I didn’t mean to, but…I did…I know it was an accident…well not totally…he was trying to calm me down and I just went out and hit him! What a fucking loser I am! What a fucking…Arghh!_

Miles hadn’t also meant to knock the lamp. It looked like a nicely, expensive china crafted one with nice blue lacquer, an oil painted like specimen, inky perfect blue gradient on a slab of stone-white — well in a minute it was just pieces and crumbs like Humpty Dumpty. Miles panicked a bit. The energy, the aura in itself, had a force that was resiliently either destructive or angry. _Fuck, this is like some celibacy but for emotions. I hope no one heard that._ Miles looked around. He thought he heard a soft thud of footsteps stop for a bit. And did his noise overlap with a cry? From somewhere along the other side of the hallway…wasn’t that where that Gluskin guy was staying?

 Eddie Gluskin. Where had he heard that name before? …Wait the fucking minute. Now, he remembered. _Oh Fuck, Oh fuck, Oh my God…I even once wrote a piece on him. How could I have forgotten?!_ Perhaps, it wasn’t Miles’s intentions after all he had been through a kind of personalised hell of his own. But Eddie’s face also had some scarring _. So, the fucker is a Variant now, Miles presumed he was with all that was going on and with Mount Massive’s history, Oh God, from a misogynist-misandrist serial killer to a fucking Variant, God, what the fuck is this some kind of weird twisted version of Pokémon? Do I have to catch ‘em-all or something? First, The Twins, who I have to say were decent enough. But this guy is a mother-fucking weirdass serial killer. Why the fuck is he concerned about Waylon? And calling him darling? I am afraid to even think of the consequences tied to that! This is getting a big fucking A on “are you bullshitting me?” I mean seriously. It had to be one of the most notorious ones, Eddie Gluskin…_

As Miles thought this he was nearing the stairs. He heard a noise and Gluskin was around and he still was able to talk and act fine enough. One of the few Variants able to do that. This made him fearful. Variants like that reminded him or Chris Walker and Rick Trager. It made him think about that exit interview with Dr Wernicke. Wernicke talking about madness and a great proximity to death. This made him fearful that even though it wasn’t always en pointe as with Rick Trager (who didn’t have to witness much death but maybe torture and madness sure enough) most non-regressive Variants were violent fucks or must have really terrible things to be able to have something akin to a consciously working intelligence. Though the Morphogenic fucked that up too. Made them singularly obsessed. With Trager it got him into his disturbing experiments, with Chris it was the single-minded purpose to kill anyone that looked coherent enough to be a Walrider host (though he just any creature walking mostly), for The Twins it was pursuit as if that was the only thing they could —and for Eddie it would amplify maybe his needs to mutilate and murder. From what he remembered seeing from the files those were gruesome murders. Women with…he couldn’t un-see it. Limbs torn, hacked off and many other ghastly shit. It almost made him puke but he had a lead stomach for some things. Though he couldn’t properly eat that day.

_“Don’t worry Miles, Eddie Gluskin hasn’t done anything to Waylon…the guy is actually bleeding a lot…”_

It was the Walrider.

They had kept a bridge of silence and distance.

Both seemed to be furious with one another.

Disappointed.

“I don’t have time for you, you piece of shit!” Miles slapped the inky body getting static as he snarled almost getting upstairs, “I need to see if —“

The Walrider roughly grabbed him then, _“Miles, you already did a lot of stupid things tonight. Don’t aggravate the situation. Eddie hasn’t done anything. And I have a feeling he might not.”_

Miles grabbed him back, _Most Variants I have seen and encountered and **experienced** , they all are fucked up okay! They all became suited with a one track mind! Usually, it picked out already something they were disgustingly good at or a fucking sick habit they got! I can’t just let that mad fuck stay near Waylon! And this guy is a lot like Trager he likes fucking people up! You should have seen the bodies! Women with so much sewed on or cut off! Like he was tailoring something out of Frankenstein’s rejected drafts! I am not gonna let something terrible like that happen to Waylon!_

Miles talked psychically because he knew if he screamed it was not pleasant and it might give away any advantages he had of ambushing Eddie Gluskin.

The Walrider looked bored, _“Last time I checked Waylon was getting stitched by Eddie. And they were talking normally.”_

Miles lost his grip on the Walrider: “What?”

 _“Yeah, you hit him hard, it’s a good thing his head did not crack or anything so severe…but he is weak and dizzy…and his stitches needed better care. Eddie seems to know his stuff around this. And, he seems to like Waylon a lot. Maybe, actually, he did find a comfort in Waylon before the Morphogenic engine got to him. I should know I am a product of it and I have Eddie’s memories as well. Let’s say in a way I know first-hand what he did, and what Trager did and all the others. I don’t always like them. Their passions and hungers may fuel me. But I don’t understand them, their purposes. Some of it feels like convoluted shit to me if you ask me. The only person I bonded to most was Billy. Though at many times I couldn’t stand that bastard. But you know the Morphogenic engine, I realised is limited. You are right it makes people obsessed with things that were their vices. So, it doesn’t really count what **other** things a person could have **hungered** for. Before Eddie went into that machine again he saw Waylon, and I remembered him dreaming, he thought Waylon looked decent and when he panicked he thought this guy can help me. Because out of all of ‘em he looks the most human and humane one. And he really did trust that about Waylon. Deep inside Gluskin was hell-bent on killing his humanity maybe not consciously, but I felt he was. You know he was raped when he was young by people he thought should have loved him but  not like that. I know it’s not an excuse to his crimes. It never will be. I’d say he should have just killed his abusers and not those women who knew squat about what he was experiencing. But I guess killers do that, they can’t antagonise the original sinners, they want to chose proxies to vent which is stupid as a logic. I mean what’s the point in making a map of “fucked up me” right? But I think it’s okay that Waylon is there. It should be okay, for now.”_ The Walrider had folded his arms a bit, then subsequently, slowly pulled Miles into a couch. Miles showed no resistance. Miles looked more depressed for a while even if that was possible.

“So, he is helping Waylon huh? Playing nurse and all that?” Miles almost snapped. “Waylon is feeling _safer_ with _that_ guy? Something tells me he gotta know about him.”

 _“Yeah from what I heard Eddie tried to kill Waylon.”_ Walrider nonchalantly spoke.

“What the fuck?!” Miles bolted up, “How can things be fine?! Shit!”

Walrider sat him down a bit roughly, _“That was then okay. And Waylon is not a weakling. He survived him then, maybe out of luck or skill or both, but now I saw him pulling no punches, as you humans say, he is keenly aware on Eddie and Eddie pretty much knows he is a fuck. Don’t worry I have an good enough attention radius, I am paying attention there, any small creak and when I concentrate enough I can be there  faster. Don’t worry so much.”_

Miles raised a brow, “You also seem to be not wanting me to interact with Waylon…” The Walrider looked a bit fazed but then just gave a stare, “Why it that Wallie ‘old sport?”

 _“I feel this is what you humans call a ‘rhetorical question’ because I can see no other reasoning for you to ask me this. Unless, you genuinely don’t know and I find that hard to fathom.”_ Wallie looked at Miles gently, though a ripple suggested some succinct animosity. Both of them seemed wearisome of the other. A human trait, after all, humans are meant to be a bit more versatile than other creatures.

“No, it’s not full rhetorical.” Miles conceded in telling his confusion.

 _“You know you hurt Waylon. When people, I have understood trust someone, the perceived betrayal hurts more than a person they suspect to be, what was the term, a bad apple.”_ Wallie looked a bit as though he was inculcating himself into such perceptions as he in an almost length way explained things to Miles.

Miles looked lived suddenly, “And _whose_ fault…” he almost barked, no longer talking in his mind, “Is that huh?”

 _“Don’t you dare blame this on me Miles Upshur.”_ Wallie looked really angry too, though he also seemed rippling, trying to control his angry, _“It’s easy for you to blame all of your problems on **me**.” _ Then shaking his head, _“You know that won’t do us any good.”_

“It doesn’t do **you** any good.” Miles hoarsely, his voice bellowed almost, “Don’t you forget that you forced your way in; it’s almost like a rape. Then have the audacity to make me feel safe with you, it’s manipulative like the Murkoff organisation. Then I trust you for a moment, I actually trust you and your fucking instincts. And you fuck me over. Damn, you fuck me over. You made me, God knows how, eat raw, fucking raw cow meat and blood. It was another form of abuse you know. How can you say you are **not** at fault? How can you say you are totally _innocent_ Walrider?”

The Walrider saw the vehemence, the confusion, the unadulterated anger and frustration. It was actually intimidating even from a human. This sort of thing…this sort of thing was a bit unmanageable. But the Walrider knew that silence and ignorance was no way out of this. The Walrider was actually also impressed. Because his host was analytical and asked him questions, unlike Billy, who was so resolute on things that made him at times pretty obsessed as the Morphogenic engines requirements, on one thing alone. The Walrider hardly meant un-obsessed people. It was refreshing to know that his host was kinda balanced, had different approaches and interests. It made him interested and somewhat happy. Though if Miles was stubborn so was the Walrider learning stubbornness or maybe had disposition towards that from the beginning. It could be comprehended he inherently had some of those characteristics. In the asylum the Walrider had been curious enough to follow Miles. Miles, as both Billy and the Walrider knew, was an outsider, and also showed a form of health and attitude most Murkoff employees and patients did not. An efficacy, a fastidiousness, an emotional sort of stability, it felt he knew nothing about the Walrider but was still going through.

 The thing that got both the Walrider and Billy impressed (that made them follow him and scout him from time to time) was the fact Miles was _unarmed_. Yet, possessed a will, so clean and adamant, strengthened and dedicated, only one another had exhibited such a will proper. That had been Waylon Park. Sure, there was others like Jeremy Blaire who were stubborn and focused on escaping as well but they had a sort of upper hand.  Miles and Waylon looked confused but willing to adapt. Willing to actually try to do something; though they were vulnerable. Wernicke had stated it was madness that was overwhelming and death proximity that made an ascension more clear. Yet such vulnerability palpitated life. A vulnerability of life that was complex but also simply beautiful. At a moment the Walrider did not mourn the loss of Billy who was already stark mad with grief. For this host was pertinent, poignant and also persistently intelligent. Even now challenging him Miles Upshur looked gorgeous. A sculptured resolve, also aesthetically, those curves, grooves and muscles (shirtless for the rains), not to mention his exquisite nether anatomies, all of it culminated in a fine specimen: distinctly male and human. Not to mention, his hands, despite heinously losing his fingers, looked as smooth and bony and supple as crafts of ultimate machine schematics. The Walrider envied such a beautiful design of flesh, bone and spirit.

And this life energy in Miles and Waylon had attracted him, he had known it before, had not seen it so measured and weighed in some chamber, some atrium, or ventricle of something divisible but also slightly invisible; the word invisible was needed because killing did not reveal life energies. It only echoed death, and death he knew happened. Funny, life seemed more than automaton movements; couldn’t even understand it fully now: _“You already had fought me and you had proven your point. Waylon came and calmed me down. You got more angry than necessary. You did not need to show so much anger after everything had been resolved. Then you hit Waylon. Even if I wasn’t in your body that hit could have hurt Waylon anyways. Are you seriously going to say I **provoked** you to hit Waylon? My fault may have been preliminary. Your faults were conclusive. That is undeniable.”_

Miles didn’t really know how to counter that without screaming his head off with expletives and the classic “fuck you, you static experiment sort of bitch” — because at the end of the day the Walrider was right here and how tragic it might sound he was absolutely wrong. Miles may have every right to get angry but he didn’t handle it the right way. Or, even a moderately feasible way. And this was important now more than ever. It was important because not only was he fused with the Walrider who amplified his excesses and exegesis; it was also important because he was on the run.  A fugitive could not afford to be of the mercurial disposition. Also, no one could just cave in any time an impulse erroneously cross-circuits its way into your consciousness. Sometimes, people do feel base desires. That aren’t really them. They come to your mind because you have fears of them and your body tries to acclimatise the situation but incorrectly may give you an inappropriate response like feeling like laughing when you should be crying or feeling sexual when you are meant to feel disgusted. Miles knew about these things. Knew how they can cover your body like lysis or leprosy making you doubt you. You are own worst enemy and in religious beliefs the devil is also said to be prone to make such corruptions in your psyche. This was an ordered disease and the devil loved it as the sources said. The reason he knew now he was mad was not only because he hurt Waylon but ever since the Walrider things had started he had doubted himself too much more than necessary. It wasn’t a good thing to do. It certainly did not make him wiser and more in control. This was the ordered structure of feeling the triumph of vice and bloody murder over anything chastely dynamic and pumping grungy, gritty understandings. SO, he had to overcome that.

“Yes.” Miles finally confessed and conceded, “If Waylon is afraid of me and me alone. _I_ am truly the one to blame. Not _you_.”

The Walrider nodded. _“But it’s okay Miles. I do think Waylon is the forgiving sort of person.”_

“Is it really that simple? Should it be?” Miles questioned, “I mean, I did hit him…badly…he got lucky that full force didn’t happen and it was scrap at least…he could have died…he could have died!” an almost muffled scream, “Fuck like some twisted domestic abuser! Fuck!”

 _“Calm down Miles.”_ Walrider sat next to him, held him, _“You can’t change what has happened. You need to change your attitude towards it. You can do that.”_

Miles had buried his head in his hands but then looks up flabbergasted, “God, you sound like some weird supernatural therapist.”

 _“I don’t know, I do think I retained some of the sessions that patients had with actually psychiatrists and psychologists and I think some of it made sense here.”_ Walrider looked on a bit quietly, _“Though I am not sure if this is the right technique. In my speak I can say that we can only push a bit forward now and just show Waylon that we are apologetic and that we will seek a different recourse.”_

“We?”

 _“Yes, I did do damages too. You hit Waylon and I went overkill on cows…”_ Walrider confessed, _“It isn’t really Waylon’s duty to watch us like small children. I think, I felt, he is very overwhelmed.”_

“Fucking right…” Miles felt terrible, but he was assuaged by the possibility of a chance of redeeming things with Waylon and establish a comradery again with him, “I shouldn’t just blow up and neither should you.” Miles looked at his Walrider, “We should really try to map out our feelings and crap as much as possible.”

 _“How do you propose we do that?”_ Walrider had carefully held Miles, it was a part embrace and Miles and he felt a bit comfortable within it, Miles did not say for him to move away and the Walrider felt a cold in his inky self, he possibly was a bit stressed out. The Walrider had never really have to make so many assessments and overtures in mental mapping before. Now, he was evolving with more sentience. Despite the difficulties Wallie was enjoying the challenges and the introspection to details in this. It was like he was seeing the metaphysical engineering of himself; an existential skeletal framework of many pathways. It was both exciting, titillating and so poignantly sumptuous that at the end of his confused like look he almost smiled.  

“I guess we can write them…” Miles moved his mouth around the words uncomfortably, he didn’t know this was going to sound so blatantly strange. The words felt fucking quizzical in the least.

 _“Excuse me?”_ Walrider inquired with a face that screamed silently “a-what-the-fuck” sort of thing. _“Are, are you serious…?”_

“Stop acting as I told you to build Rome in a day.” Miles looked a bit annoyed.

“ _That is not logically possible.”_ Walrider looked confused.

“It’s an expression.” Miles explained, “It puts on the feeling that I haven’t asked you to do the illogical.”

 _“Why Rome?”_ Walrider asked, _“Why not Egypt, Persia or Greece or India? Weren’t there complex civilisations there? From what I accumulated in sessions and also studying minds I got that feeling.”_

“That…is…That is actually a good question.” Miles scratched his head, then had a happy realisation face, “You see all pertains to a myth of Romulus and Remus; the word Rome come from them and apparently they built Rome in a day. They were considered out of the norm humans as they faced the wild by themselves and were suckled on the tits of a she-wolf and I guess gain her ferocity and nature-knowledge.” Miles almost chuckled a bit because he wasn’t necessarily sure of the last part.

Walrider looked a bit flabbergasted and blank then said: _“Lemme get this straight, they drank milk from the tits of a wolf and are heralded as Rome’s rulers?”_

“Well, not to be a bitch or anything…” Miles snickered at this, “But you do know that Walriders in myth are supposed to drink milk from sleeping women and blood out of sleeping men?”

The Walrider looked as though blinking, _“I am sorry but…I don’t think…I have done any of those…”_

This is where something clicked, Miles found this junction important, “Wallie back in the asylum you knew women were dying right I think I saw it in a report. False pregnancies and all the bundle related to pregnancies –“

_“You mean as breast milk?”_

“Yes as that?”

_“If I know something about it?”_

“Yes.” Miles nodded.

_“Well, to be honest I don’t know much. I can drink and eat normal human foods and well milk too but I do not know why the engine would have that effect on females. I think it is a defence mechanism from the engine as well after all pregnancy from what I know makes a female know something is changing with her body. The males may straight off get cancer but I suppose the females may, not all, had a warning sign. That something bad was happening to them, as in pregnancy signs but no child.”_

“Yes, but some of the females died for that.”

_“Well, maybe a while the bodies did break down for hormonal problems. The engine has that effect on many patients of all sexes and genders.”_

“You can _eat_?”

_“Apparently I can, if I need to help my host or just to recharge both our energies.”_

“Don’t go on eating humans or anything.” Miles remembered the cannibals at the asylum.

_“I only tasted human flesh once or twice. Billy was adamant in eating stuff from the kitchens; all the good food he was missing out on not decomposing, yucky flesh.”_

“That’s acceptable don’t go cannibal on me –“

_“Technically I am not human.”_

“ _Technically_ you are something really _close_ to it and have a human host. A lion eating a tiger can be summed as cat ate cat.”

_“That’s reasonable enough.”_

“Yeah.”

_“About the writing?”_

Miles looked on at him, “What about it?”

 _“I don’t know if I can write; if you haven’t notice…I can’t skilfully open doors either…”_ Walrider shrugged and then paid attention elsewhere, _“Waylon has left Eddie’s room and is going to his own. He seems happier and his wound is raw but better stitched. From my own analysis, I figured that Eddie Gluskin has made the stitch more firm and well-placed. My history on him, gathered from you and my own interactive data from him, suggests that he knows first aid, self-management of injuries, dressmaking and sketching very well. If normal or favourable conditions had persisted than he would have easily been considered a more than talented enough individual. I guess his own choices made his fates pretty grim.”_

Miles noted the words and he cringed at them a bit. Waylon was hurt and he was now being cosied to by a former serial killer. Waylon should not have to be anywhere near that fuck but his actions, as Walrider just said, had helped this position become an available reality.

“Look, I always found it weird that you can’t open doors but can make cavities the size of meteor holes in people so easily.” Miles found it laughable, and teasing Wallie made him not think about how Waylon is not with him, “I wonder why that is.”

Wallie looked pissed: _“Well excuse me but I think humans don’t understand how blessed they are with fine motor skills and all that. I mean, I am a bit of a gelatinous mass of nanites, it’s hard for me to always be physically manifested with all the static around. And I can’t interact with objects that well. I sometimes even use human strength and life-energy myself to propel forward and even kill. Inanimate objects can be, what do you humans say, a bitch. Killing the way I do requires less fine motor skills and more will and also well, sharp talons, and all that getting into your bodies which I can do. So, it for me, technically, is a very easy cake-walk sort of thing.”_

“But opening doors isn’t…?” Miles actually scratched his head, but he was getting the gist of it, “Can you tap your fingers?”

_“Tap them?”_

“Yes,” Miles showed as he tapped his fingers on the end-table where the vase has been, “Can you do that?”

Wallie tried but his fingers slipped and sliced the end-table wood. Making a deep gash on the surface and also it seared a layer down.

“Okay, uhmm, we possibly should practice that. Don’t worry.” Miles added the last bit as he suavely uttered that seeing frustration and a bit of shame on Wallie’s inky visage. Shame as in he put his non-discernible mouth almost discernible enough with a frown-type expression and then blinked. Signs of avoiding that he wasn’t able to. “And.” Miles continued, “About the writing, we will get there.”

 _“I don’t know…I saw some documents and stuff…”_ Wallie actually scratched his scalp-head, _“I do not think that speaking and writing are the same. I think my own static doesn’t react well to certain objects even at times human skin.”_

“Well, we can read books if you want.” Miles offered, “To get a hang of it.”

_“Like, what is it called again, the word, story-books, I think yes, uhmm, **fiction** books?”_

“It can also be non-fiction or even nature books.” Miles then hit a good vibe, “You know nature scares you a bit. I think we can look at the library at nature books. You might feel less fear if you know what you are dealing with. Nature is supposed to be _natural_ , I mean you don’t have to love it and be like a tree-hugger but, I mean I would like you to know that the surroundings are not so bad.”

“Is the lodge natural too…?” Walrider kinda laughed.

“Yeah, it’s a good accommodation.” Miles then mused some more, “Maybe, the libraries has some architecture books we can look through. It would be good if you get acquainted with different sorts of establishments and what good they are and what are they needed for.”

 _“Do humans write books on almost everything?”_ Wallie seemed pretty interested, _“Why so? I mean aside the purpose of records I do not see why such books should even be longer than some pages in what I saw as binding folders.”_

“Humans read for many reasons: knowledge, entertainment, pleasure, to know other lives well enough. To see the foundations of madness and empathy. Reading is a rush that helps fuse our wandering souls to many other paths or something like that.” Miles grinned as he saw Wallie fold his arms.

_“Are you pretty, well is the word well-read? I mean do you read a lot?”_

“Well, for my work as a journalist I may need to about certain topics nor else I cannot be taken seriously or legitimately. I cannot let my opinions be just crude hearsay.”

_“I meant also for other reasons?”_

“Not really, I read like 15 books in my life, I think five of those were for school. I mean I do read, I read a bit like skim-reading. Sometimes I don’t at all read large sections of a book. I guess I am lazy reader or rather disinterested one at times. No offenses to the author or writer just my own style of reading I guess. But even that way I read like only 15 books.” Miles now lay down on the couch.

Exhaustion now surged in full force. He felt dead with fatigue.

* * *

 

 _“Well then who and what would you have me read?”_   Wallie looked intrigued, _“I doubt you would know all the authors pertinent. I mean aside from what you said you may not know every good author right?”_

“Well, I am not throwing the towel yet…I can always ask –“ Cut midday as he remembered that Waylon and him were not communicating. Wanted to almost groan in frustration. Yet, Miles sighed, “I can always ask Waylon when we do get back to maybe a normal, don’t know, and even…” that is when someone came to mind, “There are others.” _Yesfir may be as read as me or maybe a bit more. We do share the same reading tactics only she is less lazy_.

_“Well anyone in mind?”_

“We can start with Emily Dickenson.” Miles recollected the feeling of hands knowing his hands, feeling them without judgment grave or miserable, knowing him, knowing that in a way his hands and the hands can intertwine with skin, blood and bone on another dimension and make little capillaries to each other souls. Miles sighed. The image of Waylon a pertinent sun-dance and a slice  of moon-cheese.

“Well, okay.”

“I think any good enough library should have her. Though these things are always subjective. And to what caters to your tastes.” Miles was nodding off.

 _“Well, after her?”_ Wallie was intrigued.

“We can read Shakespeare, Marlowe, Woolf, Hemingway, Marques, Allende, Galeano, Morrison…”  Then he chuckled, “I think you would find Toni Morrison’s Beloved a pretty entertaining read.”

 _“Why, does it have Walriders in it?”_ Wallie looked a bit sarcastic, a bit curious and a bit inquisitive.

“Well, something like that. Let’s say she also works on a host gradient.” Miles was feeling as though bags of sleep were nesting in his mind and eyes, “We can read many poets in both English and translation…may look up a directory for you in some yellow pages of book infos.” Then with a sudden vigour, “You know what we can also read? _Alice in Wonderland_ , I think you will like that. It’s actually pretty much like you too. As in, it’s supposed to be –“ the vigour is gone, “- Well, the story is like half fable and half a math-mind fuck like you with your drinking nipples and advanced science specs…”

Without further notice Miles just drifted off…

 Wallie looked on, _I guess that’s him going off to Wonderland-Oz trip_ …following suit…

Noon struck and no one woke up.

Depleted of their energies of last night’s extravagant displays of chaos each had their own sleep to sleep off.

Around 2pm the Twins ambled out. They were dressed only in underwear as clothes were something they were gradually becoming accustomed to and they preferred to take small steps. They entered the larger drawing room below and saw Miles passed out on the couch with his jacket and clothes off and well sleeping in his underwear.

“He looks…” Tom started.

“Tired.” Tim ended.

“What should we do?”

“Leave him be.”

Tim and Tom agreed on this.

They had the keys so they both nodded. “Is it okay if we check on Waylon Park?”

Tim thought deeply, “Waylon is injured and may need assistance. We will still knock as we are not necessarily intimate friends yet and we do not wish to startle him. Also, any sudden movements by us might be interpreted as a threat and we cannot make Waylon think we are trying to hurt him when we are really so much fond of him.”

“He looks nervous…at times.” Tom mouthed a bit mischievously, “I would love to ruffle his hair.”

“As would I. Beautiful hair, indeed.” Tim nodded in agreement.

The Twins were hardly out of sync. It was their trait — yet it could be also a curse. The Twins knew that their intimacy, their entire foundation built, dependent and blended on this synchronicity of sentences, actions, comments, etceteras. They have never grappled on any disagreements or differences. The sad part is probably they never will. The idea of harmonization of various elements is a very crucial aspect of synchronization. And they probably knew in their marrows, bones and nodes that they lacked this aspect. At the moment they had a subtle, unbounded with what transpired between Waylon Park and Miles Upshur. Sure, it was a bad situation but given the circumstances of it they could say it was a matter of conflict resolution — a step towards synchronicity. This was not domestic violence because a) Miles was not making excuses or false promises and b) Miles had a Walrider situation that domestic abusers don’t have.

Still, it would be hard. Guys shouldn’t care much though _, right_? A few hits by buddies is “bro-code” right? Well, “bro-code” also functions on some gradients. Without that established norm it loses its purpose. And for people recovering from the torments of being in a mental asylum for the criminal insane used for secret researches many wayward interactions would be configured as “antagonistic” or “petulant” or “problematic” specifically complicated. The Twins know they also fell in this area because of their status as Variants, as former pursuers and that trust, even amongst men, needed time and energy to be built with such difficult histories.

The Walrider followed them. They felt its presence. Despite it at rest it had gotten alert when they neared Miles and as expected acting on manifesting nearby so that it was evident that any threat would be dealt it. Yet now he knew they were going to Waylon’s room so he followed as though a protector also to Waylon Park. The Twins thought at that moment the Walrider, amongst them, was the only semblance of the impartial judge and was secretly revealed by its presence. After all, Walrider was the only person or thing, whatever that was having a considerably safe relationship with Waylon. It was so ironic and laughable that the Twins realised that truths shattered fictions like stone on glass.  

They knocked on Waylon’s door. No response. No noise. Worriedly they opened the door. Walrider went in first and saw Waylon sleeping. The Twins looked relieved. Then a rustling in sheets and Waylon looked at them groggily and with slightly red eyes: “Oh, good morning…”

“We are sorry did we disturb you?” Tim asked politely.

“Uhmm, no, don’t worry I was half asleep.”

“It is actually afternoon now.” Tom correctly.

“Well, then good afternoon.”  Waylon smiled softly but looked kinda dazed. His head ached and having that wits of conversation with Eddie the night did not really help. Then with certain light in his eyes, “I know you guys must be hungry but…” Waylon groaned a bit, “I am truly sorry…I…” he looked pretty fazed for a moment, “I am in no position to cook. I truly am sorry.”

“That’s okay.” Miles spoke out from outside and The Twins and the Walrider looked at him, he was now dressed in some sweatpants. “I will manage that.” Miles did not enter Waylon’s room and Waylon just nodded and was not interested in giving him an invite.

They had a strange stare. Then Waylon looked defiantly away making Miles sigh softly but then accept the silence.

However, it seemed Waylon told the Walrider and The Twins that Eddie shouldn’t move so much and that they should take care of him because he was badly wounded from the night.

Eddie woke up a half hour later and decided to assist Miles in making food. They glared at each other as Miles and he cut foods — veggies and some raw meats with some long noodles. They decided a broth Japanese-American styled noodles, ramen-like, would be filling. Miles told Wallie to make an inventory of the things in the kitchen. Seeing that there was food abundant they had to decide what to eat. Because even if there were raw materials they had to cook it. The Twins did not know how to cook much but they were kind enough to offer that dinner duty should be theirs. They said they will be making a fish curry and serving with boiled rice.

No one expected a gourmet extravaganza so everyone was fine with this choice.

The Twins still skilfully, with kitchen knives as instructed by Miles who did not wish to be eating out of kill-machete’s slicing, cut out light-coloured salmon and made the curry with potatoes and peas with a bit of cauliflower. It was an odd assortment but their family had eaten this and though salmon was not always in the diets of people where they had come from fish and lean meats were cooked a lot with the standard greens. They could not always eat as food for them was mostly canned but saw it shared and sampled by stable families with more money and love to spare.

During all of this Waylon ate and stayed in bed. Tim asserted that the best thing to do is nap and sleep so that the fatigue and grogginess subside. Waylon was feeling better but Tom also said best not to overdo things. Miles spent time outside of Waylon’s door in intervals but he knew he couldn’t go in.

During salmon dinner time it was Eddie who swiftly took Waylon’s plate and said he was going to give his dinner to him.

Eddie looked triumphantly at Miles outside who was just looking at Waylon looking at the ceiling from a slightly ajar door before he himself would dine with the others. Eddie knocked and got inside with a smirk. Miles almost snapped. And Wallie in his own shadows gave a glare of death to Gluskin.

Both of them wishing to claw him apart.

At dinner the smirk returned around the table as Eddie said that Waylon is taking to dinner nicely. The Walrider checked and saw that Waylon, in the comfort of a warm solitude, ate his food as well, and then reluctantly reported this to Miles and the table. As an extra update. Miles smirked too when Eddie realised that Miles was trying to make him look bad. They both then seething, glared at each other. An aura actively felt by all.

“I have to say…” Tim suddenly spoke out, “This salmon must have rode the waves of rapids all the way…”

The secret innuendo of the situation and place made Tom muffle a laugh.

Miles snorted.

Eddie just looked annoyed.

 

* * *

 

Well…

After a moment Miles saw that the computers had high-security internet. He was in one of the studies upstairs. And he needed to see what the outside world was dealing with. Being a journalist he needed to naturally know things that was going around. Opened his account with a fake IP as quickly as he could. His Gmail was still around. Though he was damn sure he couldn’t use it as before. There were many mails — some scolding him for deadlines overdue, some asking if he was coming over to this or that press conference, some even asking him if certain tags of Murkoff were looked in or not, some asking where he was so they could get down to business or some personal time or just asking him where he was — one of them, multiple mails, was from Yesfir! She sounded so worried and scared. She claimed he had even gone over to his apartment and seeing his subscriptions around and all that not collected and even his doorman being questioning made her feel more perilous about him

_< I am gonna call the police Miles, I am worried that you got your something in more than hot water. Don’t worry I will try to find you. I promise>_

That was her tone alright. Determination.

_< No, just don’t…I am okay. Look, I will do something. Don’t know what. Delete this mail ASAP after read>_

Miles then logged out of milesupshur@gmail.com. And he knew that he had to do something. Make some other alias mail accounts and talk to Yesfir as soon as possible as well.

Then he registered a mutemail and several other mails such as with servers like Hide my ass and anoynymouse.

 _Well, I am beginning to this this lodge is a like a small army’s safe house_ , Miles felt as he saw all the ways in which server, IP and other information was easily guarded, _I can’t use my gmail account anymore, even if I do I can’t sign in regularly or write stuff in it. I have to write again to Yesfir. I know she is bound to go to the police. That is her way and I am not about to add her in this. I have to protect her as much as possible. Though, I feel I might tell her much more than she needs to know. She has a way with me as I do her._ Miles smiled sadly.

The video has been uploaded, but I don’t know who read it yet and what is happening…Miles thought as he got out of the study and quietly closed the door, I know Murkoff will do anything to make the situation seem less than it is though…the video has graphic shit…well, my recording, yeah, I dropped that at Mount Massive…I wonder when I will get that back again…but Waylon’s  was equally horrific and it kinda did have me in the video…uhmm, well you can’t really see my face…Miles looked at some news sites and saw no big corporate ones doing much, well there were some, but they were somewhat quiet, Miles noted that the journalists and reporters have already started doing what they were supposed to be doing. VERAlinks has been in shit storm again but Julian seems to be handling it well enough. He looked at twitter, facebook, tumblr and there had been mentions. One tumblr post went like:

_OH MY FUCKING GOD WHAT THE FUCK TORE THROUGH THOSE POOR FUCKERS AT MOUNT MASSIVE ASYLUM?! FUCK ME! OMG! OH SHIT! THIS SHIT REAL!_

And they showed a gif, with a tiny URL to the VERAlinks main page and some other sites covering the issue, showing the Walrider decimating the soldiers. And yeah it wasn’t CGI. **It was real**.

Another Reddit thread had started about Murkoff’s involvements. But he knew in just a few days Mount Massive would be completely a new circus. Murkoff may already sent in new hard-line security people to kill all the remaining Variants or try to. But behind them would be the media and press, so close that it would make things pretty hectic. He wondered if some of the Variants would be hospitalised somewhere else. Would they be allowed to be in normal psychiatric facilities even for other criminally insane people?

Life would be difficult for all of them. If they had life left in them that the engine did not disseminate into cogs and gears in some fucked up machine project.

And, now, Miles was feeling other weights slowly press on him their Atlas admonitions.

The whole day had passed and the second had started to roll in. Waylon and Miles had avoided each other. Both confused at how to approach the matter. Not used to these sorts of things. Waylon had had fights with Lisa but those were of a _different_ nature, well different enough. Not entirely because she was a woman. Lisa was his wife and the mother of his two sons. She was already his _spouse_ and he hers. They were not getting to just know each other and start feeling each other for support. They already had something, in all manners of ways, established. The relationship with Miles had started and it was both on many contexts — partners, friends and a _maybe_ …What that maybe was, was pretty indefinable now….but Waylon knew it was there.

It was something else. If Waylon felt that then Miles was _drenched_ in it. Miles understood it more fiercely and it frustrated him because he didn’t really think it was solely sexual or sensuous but something more. It was an outreaching of trust but it was bundled in softness too, an erotic mixed with aesthetic that was still not certain.

A part of him wanted to fuck Waylon kinda hard, with some sort of abandon, either way…because he couldn’t take this position of feeling ambiguously harrowed. Sex, to him had been concrete. Even if he dabbled with a guy or some in the past. But with Waylon this period in time was not concrete, not really vague, was that insoluble matrix of humidity before rain.

He hated the distance. Hated the trust that was somewhat broken by his actions. He had a hard on. Thinking of Waylon’s lips…fuck…

Yup, hard on for the guy ignoring him. Fuck…Fuck…Fuck…ohhh…fuck…

Those are nice lips,  the way they look when he is smiling, or interested, looks like a masterpiece even when he is nervous…not thick, a bit thinner than his, actually thin-like, but wide, voluptuously full, like programmed to be kissed and sucked and mated with…oh fuck…Waylon…fuck…

Well, Waylon wasn’t really ignoring him he was just…well…staying clear damage control…it was something he was doing too so he couldn’t really blame Waylon.

Thinking about his lips again. Actually, he wanted to hear something endearing from him. Miles wanted to hear Waylon _speak_ , just speak, he wants to be _spoken_ to by Waylon Park. Yes, he loves the delicate yet earnest way Waylon speaks. It’s poetic, fucking poetry on a motion from two lines of flesh painted mauve with a light pinkish-brown tinge. And his vocals, his vocals are sweet, concave choir samples mixed with classic rock and it jars at you. And of course his words, so nicely chosen, thought of, checked out, tasted. It was this fine thing that he yearned for now.

 _“You are getting excited, it’s both sexual and also well, something else, and, it’s poignantly cerebral too.”_ Walrider observed the sudden shaking, the vigorous breathing, and the sudden twinge of an erection on the safe mode ready to know it was needed.

“ _Stop_ the analyses.” Miles almost snapped but the Walrider cooed.

_“I like this feeling, it’s like vertigo but without the ‘go’ I daresay. But also it’s pretty nice. Smooth, rocky edge like pebbles on a shore near some bedrock.”_

“I am _missing_ Waylon.”

_“His body?”_

“I…I… _all_ of him…” Miles ushered it out, he licked his lips.

 _“I don’t understand this longing. It’s not merely sexual, or companionship, or sensuous, or romantic, or erotic, or romantically erotic. I don’t know those feelings very well either individually but with my interdependence with you I do have ideas about them.”_ Walrider mused as he touched a fever-like Miles, _“You are breathing so hard. Is it a fear of isolation, as well? The pristine need for companionship, platonic and other? And also, is it closely associated with the feeling of love?”_

“I have been in love before Wallie — not many times in life but I have been and I would know the feeling…” Miles breathed huskily, “I am beginning to think that Waylon will be the only person I may be able to fully trust in a long time. It’s unfair and it scares me.”

 _“Well, you are exaggerating Miles…”_ Wallie adjoined, _“You are talking as though you and I have had foreseen all possible futures.”_ Then he embraced him, _“Trusting Waylon is a nice feeling. Don’t overthink it. Don’t think that he will be the only one. You have just recently sent a mail to someone — yes, I saw…”_ To Miles questioning stare, _“You might find few other people and even if Eddie is the least favourite of yours The Twins are proving to be really valuable and they are walking a trustworthy enough path.”_

“I guess you are, right again.” Miles unknowingly embraced back his mutual Walrider.

_“Are you afraid that you feel friendless?”_

“I don’t know Wallie.” Miles confessed, “Ever since I took this job I have seen the pessimism and the awfulness of people near and far; I mean friends, long-time, did leave me. Not everyone can stand how I work and what I do. I was a fool to let Yesfir also leave. Well, she didn’t leave per say, I mean she stayed but I wasn’t really sure that I made it easy for her full-time. I did not really spell out commitment and when she did leave as in feeling that we had no relationship; I couldn’t stop her either. And both deductions had made me increasingly sad but I am too stupid to know what to recover after that. At first I was a patronising bitch…I somewhat looked down on her because she was a poet and an author. I was at a time dating her one time close friend, best friend, Diana Hartfield, who was actually a co-journalist at my job. Diana easily backstabbed me. At the time she was sleeping with other people and had always parasitically envied Yesfir. That came from both sexual rejection from her but also because at the end of the day Yesfir, despite her great talents at introspection on others, did not choose a journalism career. We were both looking down on her at first, the fucks we were. And then I got fired and Diana easily bolted, easily slandered me. Not Yesfir. Either because she wanted something to prove to the lot of us or maybe, she actually wanted to also be there for me. Our relationship was a bit open. And that became the problem because I should have been more settled on it. After a while we both broke apart. I think she knew I was being a reserved ass. I did apologise to her though, sincerely.”

_“Is Yesfir the person you mailed?”_

“Yeah, she noticed I wasn’t doing much. She noticed that I _disappeared_. Many _wouldn’t_.” Miles smiled soft, his breathing has eased, “She always _notices_ things like that, notices _me_.” Miles smiled brighter, “She is a beautiful woman, a beautiful human being. It’s hard to explain Wallie.”

 _“I don’t think so, rather, isn’t Waylon a bit like that too_?” Walrider asserted, _“I mean even in his staying away from you I feel he is noticing you, the good aspects of you that should have been inserted in that situation. And it’s not like he doesn’t think you can’t be wrong or angry or anything; I noticed this that Waylon is pretty understanding or has a tendency to try to. I mean he is pretty forgiving, not always naively, he does also maturely know the lines between tolerance and overindulgence. But I think Waylon is the sort of person who could understand you, me, The Twins and Eddie and give us pardons and acknowledgments. Not many others could. They don’t either have the capacity or utilise it even if they do have it. I noticed when Waylon did not chastise me enough for my cow slaughtering. It was wrong but Waylon hasn’t said anything excessively. He made his points and has done peace with that. If he says more things it will align with that.”_

“You are becoming observant.” Miles didn’t know if he should be proud or happy, or a mixture of both. But he was feeling all of those emotions.

 _“Look, I don’t know much of the outside world and wide spaces still somewhat scare me.”_ Wallie explained _, “I am learning from you guys and also I do see you as a form of microcosm of what society might be. I know it is not_ _the best example you know we aren’t the usual guys in it”_ Miles and Wallie both shared a smile, _“But I am learning and I find this all good and interesting. Not the part where Waylon is angry but you get me.”_

“Yeah I do.”

All this time Miles had been in his own room.  In the distance he heard The Twins just talking, due to Walrider’s amplified hearing and their bond, he could hear that it was a bit about Waylon and him avoidant of each other and also about Waylon’s health. Then Tom laughed because he was gonna help Eddie with his bandages and made the comment about “tongue and liver” which made Gluskin pretty pissed off and almost not let Tom help him. Apparently, Eddie’s abdominal wounds were pretty deep. On the surface they looked healed but he couldn’t take loads of strains yet. Miles did not really feel compassion immediately because he thought this was good news as Eddie looked fast and strong and the more wounded he was the more well it was _safe_ right, for Waylon?

Miles knew any one of them could be in trouble due to Eddie Gluskin but The Twins were hardly separated from each other and their machetes and Waylon was once being chased around by him.

At the heart of it Miles hoped this silent chasm filled up with some rainwater with something and so he could communicate with Waylon again.

At the corner of his eye he saw that Wallie was trying to tap his fingers. But making really deep scratches at the chest drawer – then Walla one noise! One tractable, non-scratched noise from an index talon finger and – then back to square one with a deeper scratch that chipped off a small triangular chunk of the drawer making Wallie’s ecstasy go to complete childish fury as he started waving his arms around wildly. Screeching almost voicelessly and then just lied down next to Miles in bed. And hug him.

Miles smiled and he ruffled Wallie’s head, _Every journey starts with the small step…_

 

* * *

 

“What are you doing here?”

Eddie knocked softly at the door and Waylon looked up and was looking a bit scared but a bit comfortable. Seeing Waylon tense made Eddie stay a bit away and not enter the study.

“I couldn’t sleep and I hated being in bed all day.” Waylon answered and allowed Eddie to come a bit closer but then also used a signal for him to stop a few feet away, Eddie didn’t seem to mind but Waylon looked apologetically at him, “I just didn’t know what else to do.”

“But Waylon darling.” Eddie looked pretty concerned, “You shouldn’t strain yourself, or your eyes.” Eddie looked around, “Should you be _reading_ in such _dimmed_ lights?”

“I didn’t want anyone else to notice me.” Waylon looked at Eddie, “But you seem to well, this may sound bad, find me out.”

Eddie blushed a bit, “I am sorry Waylon I wanted to say goodnight and just to see if you are doing well. I saw you weren’t in your room. I got scared and looked about and saw the slightly opened doors here and well I didn’t mean to pry…”

Waylon felt guilty, “Look, don’t feel bad, it was nice of you to check up on me. I truly appreciate it. I am sorry that I did not do the same.” Waylon looked worried, “I should have I mean in this place I mean you know me better than the others…” Looking at his stomach, “Are you wounds healing? Do you want me to bandage for you?”

Eddie had to smile, Waylon darling sweeter than strawberries and so earnest, “Do not worry Waylon darling, The Twins were nice enough to…” he stopped remembering the ‘liver and tongue’ comment and almost cringing strongly with apparent disgust, “Help me about. They did tend to me. I see they also tended to you Waylon.”

“Yes, I told them you were not in the best shape but I didn’t know if they would comply to help you.” Waylon smiled brightly, “I am happy that they were helpful and listened and tended to you. Are you feeling better?”

“Yes Waylon darling.”

“I am glad then. You should go to sleep. You need rest and sleep.”

“And you don’t Waylon darling?” Eddie wanted to slide him on his lap and slowly kiss his forehead and maybe…kiss him softly…Waylon did look a bit tired.  What would it be like to kiss his exhaustion? Nibble it in throat and breast…? Cling on the seeping out of it as tongue and lip met?  Touch his soft member to hardness…silkily with all of himself…Eddie  knew perhaps it was not appropriate but a vivid image of Waylon possibly naked underneath him telling him to go faster and harder made him get a tug below the pants (dressed in sweatpants and a tank, both grey) and almost flush too strongly.

“I can’t sleep.” Waylon looked pretty sad, he looked down on a book he seemingly was reading.

“Is this because of Miles?” Eddie looked irritated, “You know he hurt you, you remember that right?”

“Yeah, Eddie so did you.” Waylon almost snapped making Eddie looked a bit flabbergasted and then just give a ‘really’ look. Waylon paused and sighed, “Sorry that was bitchy of me but, Eddie you did as well and…I don’t know I know the Walrider can’t really be used as an excuse but I do think Miles is genuinely sorry and that I must help him work these things out. I don’t have to but I want to because I know Miles is counting on me as I am counting on him. We are in this together. I just can’t easily abandon him. I mean I just can’t.”

Eddie looked at Waylon’s face, the integrity, the truthfulness of this perseverance and felt an envy that rivalled that he ever truly known. That Miles Upshur, at this time in life, I wish I was him so I could just embrace Waylon like he did and just melt with him…it’s not fair, God, it’s not…why couldn’t I have been the reporter and that up shore without a paddle guy the Groom or Infrared or some shit…Eddie almost groaned out in utter frustration.

“I am still mad at him.” Waylon said determinedly too, “I am gonna hit him back if I get the chance!” Waylon half-screamed and pointed at his head, “This hurts really, really bad!”

“Do you want me to dress it again for you?” Eddie slowly, non-threateningly, walked next to Waylon and just sat down, “I know The Twins do it but I think because of sewing habits I can actually get it done with attention to the more delicate bits.”

Waylon almost choked at that statement, “Yeah, uh, the delicacy…uhmm.” Started to babble.

“I mean no harm.” Eddie realised the word-choice may not at all been prudent.

“I know.” Waylon smiled.

Eddie smiled back. As he decided to start stitching, after getting the tools necessary, “What are you reading Waylon darling?”

“ _Disgrace_ by J. M. Coetzee.” Waylon looked a bit sheepishly at Eddie who actually looked a bit blank.

“That title is not at all subtle.”

“No, it isn’t.” Waylon chuckled.

“I hope you are not feeling like a disgrace _yourself_ and are reading this to make yourself feel worse!” Eddie looked really unhappy and stopped stitching.

“Not really.” Waylon said this half-heartedly, “I have wanted to read this. I know the story already but it made me wanna read it more…it’s about a professor in a prestigious university that has a strange affair with a student and then well…” Waylon looked hesitantly, “And then…this may be difficult for…I mean…” Eddie understood and nodded for him to continue, “Well, she tells the administration about the relationship and accuses him of rape.”

“She is telling the truth isn’t she?” The conviction in Eddie’s face was really something.

Waylon nodded, “She is but it is partly a complex situation. The truth is given the situation and her situation the professor seriously didn’t know he was raping her. Yet, what he did was wrong.”

“Seriously?” Eddie looked a bit incredulously, “Like can you explain?”

“Yes, like she was in a weird daze and the professor thought she wanted to have sex as well. Though he was also being led by his dick so…” Waylon nodded, “But she doesn’t say anything to him and he thinks it’s okay and he was acting like an idiot. Fuck, he shouldn’t have touched her in that situation when she looked kinda out of it but well then a lot of other things happen. Then of course, all his karma and even this situation is juxtaposed in another socio-political framework and it gets really, _really_ nasty. It’s like he has disgraced something _cardinal_ in himself as well and must pay the price.”

“Well, he is rapist of a person in his care he _should_ be punished.” Eddie looked approvingly.  

“Yeah, but you know, it’s not directly him that gets punished and so…it is a _disgrace_ …” Waylon said sadly, “It’s really _tragic_.”

Waylon started reading passages out from the book that he just turned pages of and generally told the story to Eddie. About how it is about racism, aboriginal apartheid in South Africa, how people in those positions in power can be really assholes and how the professor feels after everything when he fails to understand but at the same time feel he is really in trouble and is watching himself drown without any sort of branch to help him to preserve anything.

Eddie listened intently. And at some moments he is really disturbed and sad at the events. He asks questions and they talk. Makes pertinent slangs at the professor. But feels extremely bad for his daughter. Sheds a few tears. The companionship is equable and good. It makes them both feel comfortable. Waylon enjoys that he is having such a conversation with Eddie. It was not that Eddie exuded that he was not aware or that what one might call unintelligent. But Waylon had to admit he was pleasantly surprised that Eddie was interested at such things. Probably, because he didn’t know any aspects of Eddie aside that he had had wanted to kill him and that he himself was a rape survivor. And Waylon admitted to himself that he was being a bit stuck-up. Sometimes being in a university or urbane-high environment did that to you; you thought intelligence was just one way or rather executed in certain ways. But he was ashamed because he had forgotten that he too had found out that he couldn’t always get along with his peers because he tried to give other people chances when they didn’t and also there were times when he questioned their aptitudes. Academically, they may have been qualified to win awards multiple times but they lacked personalities or they lacked kindnesses and were snobby or even totally negligent about what others wanted. In recent years he had always contested the definitions of genius and all of that because to him many people were too narcissistic, avaricious and apathetic to really fit that term used for enlightened individuals in a collective.

“I am sorry.”

“For what?”  Eddie smiled, “For reading to me a good story? Talking to me about it?”

“No. For thinking you were not traditionally intelligent.” Waylon ashamedly looked away.

Eddie was sad for a moment, “Oh.”

“I was being a Berkeley douche.” Waylon then looked, still uncertain, “I was being patronising without fully realising it. I am sorry Eddie. I don’t have much besides my perceived intelligence and skills and for that I am recognised even by bloody Murkoff Corporation. I thought it made me unique. I really do hold onto my programming skills. I am truly very sorry Eddie. I was being a fucking prick.”

Eddie had had a small smile on his lips a bit for a moment and Waylon almost shuddered but he slowly raised his hand, with all speed safely there, and then spreading his fingers to show that he meant no harm and possessed no malice, and then slowly, happily, placed it on Waylon’s cheek: “What you have does make you unique but that is not only you Waylon. Your empathy is so sound and good and you understand and are kind. Murkoff standard for uniqueness is perverted. They tortured me and wanted my worst bits to be my only bits. They were in a way already exacerbating what diseases I had in my own mind. So their tipping scales don’t count. And I am happy you got to study at a prestigious place I would have loved too as well. I am glad that you had all the love and care you needed. Waylon, I envy you your good fortune. But I know, I do know, that because of all your good qualities you may have had to suffer in another way more than me. Any child can have privilege even so many Murkoff executives had equal or better than you but I do see that they were as patronising and selfish and greedy more so than most people. You must have had great teachers and also good guidance but I know inherently you are a good person and know what choices to make. I saw you the first time in that room and you cared enough to back away from the computer; you dreaded hurting me. You felt guilty though you may have known I was a criminal. I loved that, I thank you. It was so nice to be seen as a human being especially by someone like you. Someone who knows how to value human beings. Someone who probably is so good that he can even confess to me, on the spot, what he thought and maybe even want my forgiveness. I know it may not really be related to me trying to hurt you before but I am so happy that you said what you did. I want to build this trust between us. Waylon, I…I would really like us to be friends…I want to be someone you can count on…”

Waylon was so amazed at how Eddie talked. At first he was wondering if this is what he was trying to do, just use words to trick or something. But there was something that felt really real, it was on his face. Like when he was also behaving psychopathically convinced that he needed removal of his “vulgar bits” — but here he had a softer look of a man convinced in what he wanted to do.  Waylon touched the hand on his cheek, “Thank you Eddie. I want you to be able to count on me too. I guess it will be really cool to be friends with you.” Waylon gave a smile and felt really happy. It was so nice to have someone be there to listen and also listen to.

They then kept on continuing talking about the book and Waylon also talked about the author what he knew. He asked what books Eddie had read and Eddie shyly confessed he read some Danielle Steele and Jackie Collins and that he had read poets, some whose names he did not really know, and that he liked Shakespeare but also Raymond Chandelier and also read Ian Fleming’s James Bond books one or two. But that he also read local writers. And that sometimes he liked listening to a recording of a book while he worked on sewing or something. All of this Waylon found really fascinating. He had to admit that Eddie had read a bit diversely. Eddie opined, with sadness, he wanted to read more books but at times literary devices and analogies did elude him. But he did read a book he really enjoyed, though it took him time to read, Umberto Eco’s _The Name of the Rose_ and Waylon said he read parts of that book too and enjoyed it enormously as well. Eddie thought the murder mystery in a monastery was something really outré and he really loved it. Waylon told him that many university kids did not at all read books as that either and so he should be happy he read a tome that was heralded as a literary masterpiece and bestseller. And Waylon said that it was one of the books that actually complimented its reputation because it was a very good book. Eddie blushed. Waylon was looking so happily at him and he also saw a good honesty in him. He knew Waylon didn’t think he was a dumb sap rather he didn’t know anything about him. There was no doubt that Waylon did think that he had skill, expertise and intelligence when he was running from him. It was just that Waylon thought it was all one-track. And to an extent it was. After all it was not like he was talking about tea parties with Waylon he was trying to castrate him.

Ironically then Waylon and Eddie talked about two Danielle Steele novels: _Daddy_ and _Big Girl_. One was written in 1989 and the other 2010. They both agreed that maybe either Steele pandered to the audience views of the times or rather she herself had a personal evolution. As in the former book _Daddy_ , the female protagonist is soon marginalised for her wanting a career while in the latter book the second female protagonist is marginalised for wanting a wedding. Though Eddie was a bit confused and asked he didn’t understand why a person, women in general were marginalising different types of women as his mom did that too and he was pretty unsure about it. Waylon claimed some men acted this way too but less ostentatiously than women. Waylon and Eddie also noticed the drift, the lack, the sending out, of the two female protagonists by some point in the novel.

“As they kinda are being _punished_ for what they want?” Eddie actually asked a pertinent question,

“Yeah, you are right.” Waylon nodded.

“It’s pretty unfair if you ask me. Sarah wants to study but her husband just doesn’t really do much to listen to her and then Gracie has all her life been so swept and loved according with an image too. How can both Oliver and Victoria think they _are_ the _good_ ones when they _fail_ to understand this about two people so close to them? I wonder if Steele was just trying to please a certain crowd.”

“Yeah you are right. But maybe at that point in time she was also being influenced by mass thinking and even to a bit now so she is critical according to a popular conceptions. Though the time and place of these things should also be taken into consideration I do think it is at times too stereotyped to think that some ‘a’ plus or minus ‘b’ becomes always a ‘c’ you know what I mean? Women are not really celebrated by going after the things that they love. They are celebrated _only_ as mothers. Which actually limits them. I do not know even if Oliver is a good guy I mean he doesn’t take his wife’s feelings of incompetence as something that is well normal. I mean Sarah was a Harvard student and I think that, maybe not always but given her disposition, had some merit. But Oliver fails to see that. Not to mention I know Gracie is a bit spoiled but can Victoria really ask for a difference. It’s not like she and her sister worked actively or passively on a difference you know.” Waylon put out his points and Eddie agreed.

“I think Victoria was being a bit stuck-up with her sister. There is some residual jealousy that she tries to hide by acting like she loves Gracie as Oliver also does with Sarah but in the long-run you sometimes question that right. I know I did in my own life.” Eddie added, “It doesn’t seem right that Victoria would think just because someone is 22 they can’t get married. After all her relationships were not so great either. Also, Gracie may be marrying for wrong reasons but she really doesn’t know how to live outside of that life and Victoria has not once really told her about it much or helped her much on it before. Can she really also expect a sudden change when Gracie herself has left herself uninitiated. I find that even the so-called loveable character to be problematic, not in a human way, but in a way that makes me question her cloyed goodness.”

“Personally, I didn’t like how Steele said or made Victoria say that the uni guys or even girls could or should only be fun guys. I mean…” Waylon kinda cringed then chuckled, “I got married early and wasn’t the so-called _fun_ guy. I was the _settled_ one.”

Eddie smiled at that, “Maybe you can write a novel about it.”

“I think you are life is more interesting.” Waylon confessed.

“Serial killers lives are always interesting to the public.” Eddie further confessed, “Though I hate her I think, would anyone make a biography out of my mother?”  

“Maxim Gorky did something similar in his book _Mother_ or _The Mother_. It was like a semi-autobiographical of himself and a biograph of his mother which also talks about the social-political situation of the time.” Then Waylon added to the confessions, “It is true though that ‘grand plots’ at times interest us more than quieter, quotidian epics and that our binary hive minds do not allow us to always meld both mediums. If you did write about your mother what would you write?”

“I guess I want to know why some women and men are so comfortable with abusive spouses or even their partners abusing their kids. What makes that sort of thing to come across? Is it also a self-hate, a sort of this is my lot and I have to live with it, or is it also a fear that that kind of person chose you does that mean if others know that would add or make you a criminal too?” Eddie pondered and looked at Waylon with a face of a man heated warmly in their dialogues with another.

Waylon was impressed, and nodded, “Those are seriously very good questions to ask. Would you ever write a book such as this? I mean, it would be useful to both you and the people around.”

“Do you think I can write such a book?” Eddie truthfully concerned asked his Waylon darling. “Or, any book to say the least?”

“I think you have a lot of potential that you don’t know about and obviously I don’t know about. You shouldn’t really always ask me for your self-validation. I think you should do it. I would read it. But if you feel you need time or don’t wanna do it it’s all up to you.” Waylon smiled, “I think it would be nice to know. Though, “ Now softer with no smile, “Those are really deep-rooted personal experiences for you and the masses can also turn it around and make you out as a loser and not really be perceptive but full of criticism and unnecessary trolling and vitriolic.”

“I don’t care really because I wouldn’t be making excuses of what things, what acts of murder and mutilation I performed, rather it is also me putting down what my family did to me also down because if my crimes are known and  trying to be understood why shouldn’t theirs?” Eddie aptly spoke.

“True indeed.” Waylon nodded.

They kept on talking about Disgrace again and Waylon told more of the story and they read out certain parts, taking turns, both showing grimace or hope and laughed sadly. It was both a visceral and spiritual experience of two people. Enjoined by both chaos and peace. A Ying and Yang shifted between them as easily as blood enters haemoglobin.

And in that dim lit library burned a vast array of humanity radiated in both waves of shadows and light…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the opinions about the book Disgrace those were actually the case points in the book itself so I am not saying anything to undermine anyone who is a rape survivor. I think I also made Eddie talk about what he thought to as he himself is a rape survivor. Though he is a fictional character and so I don't think what he says is really relevant to everyone. I was inspired by talking to Tien and OneThousandAngels in this chapter as both Tien and OTA are pretty good in understanding characters too. Tien is a Miles specialist and OTA a Eddie specialist so shout-out to both of them! ;) But many canon plot points from the game were made more clear to me by Tien too so I am happy I talked to him. And OTA does do a good amount of shaping human minds as complex as also Eddie's so I am pretty happy and honoured they talked to me. 
> 
> Well, guys tell me what you think. The action is soon rapidly starting. I thought it was important to also have psychological conversations and microcosm interactions with the main plot of Walriders and all the projects. That is why this chapter is so BIG. I needed to get those nooks and crannies out of my system. Also, Miles and Waylon are starting to now also assert what they must do. And Murkoff is also starting doing its own thing. I also realised I haven't visited Jeremy Blaire and Darian Leitner alongside Andrew Lanes so by next chapters they will be more active. Know that Jeremy is still convalescing and a bit of info, may even think what he must do with Murkoff as it all is going pretty messily. Darian is doing all that he can to be a hunter and doing his weird shit. The other Walriders have to make a pilot or debut soon lol. I know. It's just I got some background info constructed around them and I must implement it organically.
> 
> SO REVIEW AWAY PLEASE :D


	14. Making Out/Off/On/Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well you got |1.4k| of introducing an OC in this chapter  
> you got |553| of Walrider and Miles  
> you got |1.3k| of Eddie/Waylon time
> 
> Then you got like |8k| of Miles/Waylon SO YES PEOPLE THIS IS A MILES AND WAYLON CHAPTER FINALLY! Yeah there are TWs for DISCUSSING ABUSE AND RAPE AND ALL THAT
> 
> BUT THIS IS A MILES AND WAYLON CHAPTER FTW
> 
> So enjoy the smorgasbord of things in this chapter!

 

** Making Out/Off/On/Up **

 

Her room was a bit arabesque; a bit with Western-Eastern steels but more so Persian-scapes and paintings of ink. It wasn’t perfectly outré or bohemian. There were papers, notebooks, pens of all kinds, there are books of all kinds too – research books, law books, legal aids, poetry books, mathematics books, fiction novels, nature books, flower books, and there is also a nice smell of incense of a particular type. The candles also seemed to have been scented. But they did not seem to be the headquarters of some “Indie Belle” — it was an odd fusion between two popular contrasts though much reduced and also pretty archetypically incorrect. The stentorian West and the Exotic East. However, that was not the case. The apartment room was nicely juxtaposes many elements of both urbane and natural.

The half-dusky skinned beauty got up from her nap. And stretched. She was working on a book. A book of poems. But also she did do freelance writings. Freelance opinion pieces that were social or political or cultural and/or intellectual. Only recently had she written a piece of trauma, both physical and mental, related to victims of long-term childhood abuse. And she had asked permission from one of the survivors to write a poem on her which was granted. She had written a paper on mathematical biology and also how it ties nicely to certain attitudes of Emily Dickenson and the novel _Orfeo_ by Richard Powers. And that is what she usually did. She was a writer of miscellaneous attributes. She had been nomadic because she couldn’t have her patience tried anymore. She had once worked as a sub editor and the world around her crashed and burned too much. The political _interna_ of the place was as festering as a mould’s marriage with rancid cheese. It could be argued that her multidimensional intelligence or an attempt at it did not sit well with singular minded organizations and individuals. They were constrained and pretty hierarchal and anarchic about certain things. She had valued yin-yang approaches; order symbiosis with messes that was stimulating, non-acerbic chaos. This made her the enemy of many people. Social or political or intellectual or classist — being a constant enemy bugged her because she was no galloping Trojan Horse with a Pandora on her back and refused to be treated like one.

Yesfir Nova Wayra looked at the time. It was 7am and she had slept a bit poorly. When she wakes up she remembers a dream and knows that she had thought she had made love with Miles Upshur. And she somewhat blushes with embarrassment. The tender embarrassment that comes from a shyness of knowing; the cuteness of oneself that soon alchemically turns into a sense of power. The power of knowingness is all that can truly be said about it. A part of her still loved him. And she was sure it was the same and may always be that. Yet, here was the thing. There’s had become an economic love that needled with compact companionships and boats and bridges that had more or less become an intense platonic. If on a DNA level it could be spoken for it could be that they are adenine and thymine but guanine and cytosine (the three bonded band of friendship with some sensuousness here and there). However, she also was happy she knew now that Miles was okay. In a general sense. Because she still had the impenetrable feeling that he was still in a lot of trouble. She could not seep into what kind of trouble because it was not completely, well, she knew that Miles anticipated trouble.

Yet, something told her this unanticipated trouble. And that really, really bothered her. In Miles’s line of work should there be any unanticipated troubles? It sounded strongly serious and dangerous. But she had some belief that Miles could somewhat process it. Process that inevitable shit hitting fan scenarios (she wondered who generated the terminology as shits and fans are like really unlikely to meet). Though in his line of work the unanticipated is pretty bad. Like drop-dead bad.

_I was hoping that Miles would have packed for rainy days like this, maybe he is utilising them already, but he did feel a less confident person and I know that may mean he is coming across something pretty overwhelming._

She didn’t know the intricate details of it but she knew Miles was sent on target of revealing the criminal accounts of the Murkoff Corporation and many others. It was a noble trait. It was a human trait. Statistically, empathy would not even entail much on Maslow’s laws because Maslow laws dictated mostly a singular sense of survival techniques. Also, if one looks at charts of statistics no one easily speaks up on helping others. Even self-help is rather relegated. It is mostly self as a commodity or rather as an organism of only pleasure is noted. Yet, there was nothing wrong in feeling like an organism of pleasure. Human beings possessed a great aptitude for pleasures and intelligences. It is the stagnation of such pleasures that was never truly talked about. Here was the entropy of the synapse to pleasure. That pleasure became incomplete fungus and not rooted or nested. Empathy could help level that field. Her dusky skin had a glow like gold, or some garnet embrace. She was reading about Fermat’s Last Theorem and wondered if the proof and anti-proof could co-exist with each other like in an Euler’s identity. She thought about other dimensions and realised that the soul and mind harvested those other dimensions and also participated in them. Dream was a subset of a dimension. No one can say dreams were tangible or that they were not. They are the nuclei of another dimension making traces of the third dimensional and to be honest it could be good or bad or true or false. It didn’t matter.

In her new book of poems she had a poem called walking underneath the 180° where the bearing became nothing and past zero and she saw Borges telling her that she could see things if she wanted but she transverse back because it is nice to repeatedly look at certain things.  Only when she came back did she begin to experience vertigo in her poem as vertigoes can happen when you face certain realities, biological or otherwise. Her editor had told her if she wanted to write more poems about any experiences she might had. She decided to write about seeing a penny once in a stream when she was younger and throwing it again back to the stream hoping a fish would gobble it and produce silver scales. Or, that the sun would melt it, would it become water? Editor was like what about any non-surreal experiences. She had to laugh a bit with him on that.

But Miles had liked this “strangeness” or whatever it could be called about her. It was because of this they always remained as good friends. It was because of this Yesfir knew that her one-time close friend, Diana, had easily made fun of her behind her back and became irresistibly envious and jealous of her. After all some strangeness types were facets of an original personality. And in a world that valued “normal” that sort of originality was both to be abhorred and adored in its entirety. A contradiction that exists but unfortunately a contradiction is non-harmonious.

Miles had once called her an ideas’ factory and that had made her happy because it was nice to be appreciated for one’s individual traits. Well, she then emailed Miles a response. Maybe something that would cheer him up. He did once say that her poems cheered him up. About 20 minutes later she harnessed the poem to an email and just sent it to him:

“this supine space that you enrolled and enthralled in  
like smoke in some opium den that hypnotizes and collapses  
in the implosion of its own organism; let hope not dent there  
bend like a refraction of light and see you in both mirrors and flesh  
your soul is supine towards heavens and underbellies: down and up  
you move like an astronaut/argonaut of things extreme and in between.”

Though she knew that maybe he wouldn’t read it immediately or at all she wanted to let him know she remembered his tastes. After all she wanted him to know he didn’t have to feel alone.

 

* * *

 

They hadn’t spoken.

And Miles _refused_ to be the first one to say something though he knew he probably should. Fuck, even Walrider thought so and that made him feel like shit. He knew that he should say “sorry” but something made him feel _lesser_ at the time for saying it so. Or, trying to. There was gaps and crevices in his sentences. Particularly, the hollow places where sorry was needed and he knew he was being a pre-emptive jerk. But he had somewhat forgotten how to make a sincere apology.

His line of work did not necessarily _do_ a _sincere_ apology. As in you worked your ass off to get things right so that nothing like a sorry comes into the equation in the first place. “Sorries” usually meant weaknesses in media relations. Or, people sure as fuck interpreted it that way. It was not a good idea to say “sorry” without knowing what kind of person you were dealing it. Also, Miles worked hard enough to ensure that sorry wasn’t really part of his journaling skills. But, this wasn’t journalism. This was his friendship with Waylon Park or whatever he felt he had with Waylon Park. And the only sense of entitlement he could possess with Waylon was that Waylon would support him through this as in give him council when he needed it. BUT…that’s not only what he wanted. Sure, Waylon would help as he helped others. It was part of being Waylon Park. But…he wanted Waylon’s friendship and trust which would not happen unless he made a true enough apology.

The Twins had been pretty helpful. So, had Wallie.

Waylon did not talk to him directly. Rather he sent these three as resourceful envoys. Already he felt that Waylon was like a land (truthfully his name could be a name of a country or state or something) and he was faraway and that Miles was in ironic wordplay the reification of a bit of the common use of the word was miles away from him. Waylon had spent the last day in the library, the small right-hand corner study upstairs, reading or something or the other. With him most of the time was Eddie. Tim and Tom took some time there too. Wallie decided to be his constant companion though he did go to and fro at times to see what was going on.

Wallie reported Waylon had finished reading, in conjunction with Eddie, around three books of a reasonable size. Miles got a bit annoyed and asked elaborately what books they were and Wallie said they were _Disgrace_ by J.M. Coetzee, _The Lover’s Dictionary_ by David Levithan and _Love Poems_ by Anne Sexton. Wallie stated that _Disgrace_ was finished but the other two books had a different arrangement so they were going to and fro on that.

Miles was pissed off. That was an understatement. The only thing that would keep him calm now was just doing some bloody household chores. He was in no mood to assess emails or look at documents. Needed to cool off a bit before he could start doing some other work.

Wallie asked if he had decided to give an apology to Waylon and Miles replied, harshly and definitely, “No.”

After that the Walrider minded his own devices obviously disappointed at Miles.

 

* * *

 

“My mouth blooms like a cut.  
I've been wronged all year, tedious  
nights, nothing but rough elbows in them  
and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling _crybaby  
crybaby, you fool!_

Before today my body was useless.  
Now it's tearing at its square corners.  
It's tearing old Mary's garments off, knot by knot  
and see — Now it's shot full of these electric bolts.  
Zing! A resurrection!

Once it was a boat, quite wooden  
and with no business, no salt water under it  
and in need of some paint. It was no more  
than a group of boards. But you hoisted her, rigged  
She's been elected.

My nerves are turned on. I hear them like  
musical instruments. Where there was silence  
the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this.  
Pure genius at work. Darling, the composer has stepped  
into fire.”

 

Waylon felt pretty strange reading this poem out in front of Eddie. It was from Anne Sexton’s _Love Poems_ and he had to admit it was both visceral and psychological. Yet Eddie had looked towards it and asked if Waylon, kindly if he didn’t mind, to read the poem. It was titled The Kiss. Wow, it had the word “darling” in it — how, convenient that was…somehow the song started sad but ended in a crescendo of passion and revival. Like a different kind of immolation…Waylon thought and presently blushed. The book was close to _The Lover’s Dictionary_ , which Lisa had told him was a great book. And Eddie looked it at it somewhat fondly so he thought why not. And then in the contents page was that poem and so Waylon read it out.

Eddie looked really interested in the poem. He even commented how he likes the words “bloom” and “cut” on the same line and Waylon agreed that kisses made him at times think about nature and gardening. Eddie seemed interested in that line which Waylon had to admit was a bit inquisitive nonchalantly in its own right. Waylon then took Levithan’s book and chose the letter “C” in the dictionary and read out two of the definitions.

 

 **cache** , _n_. I decided to clean my desk. I had thought you were busy in the kitchen. But then I heard you behind me, heard you ask: “What’s in the folder?” I’m sure I blushed when I told you they were printouts of your emails, with letters and notes from you pressed between them, like flowers in a dictionary. You didn’t say anything more, and I was grateful.

 **cajole** , _v_. I didn’t understand how someone from a completely landlocked state could be so terrified of sharks. Even in the aquarium, I had to do everything to get you to come close to the tank. Then, in the Natural History Museum, I couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “It’s not alive,” I said. “It can’t hurt you.” But you held back, and I was compelled to push you into the glass. What did it matter to me? Did I think that by making you rational about one thing, I could make you rational about everything? Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to save you from your fears.

 

Unbeknownst to Waylon, Eddie had felt really entranced by the poem “The Kiss” — it felt to resonate a lot with him. The way he felt composed anew and how his body was useless before but felt resuscitated, felt a resurrection. Because of Waylon talking about kisses and all. He smiled a smile: softly triumphant with both calm and vertiginous subtleties. The truth was he did not know a kiss like that could save someone. Kisses for him had always seemed the first ways to transmit venom. Even if they were delicacies that could be unwrapped and unwrapped again and savoured: they were not the main course right? To Eddie they were delicacies so that had always translated as treats. But to see a kiss to be something of this much importance? Yes, he had seen cooing couples and elderly stroll with kisses but that didn’t mean anything much to him. They never did. To him that world was like a frost-shell or a snow-globe. It was transparent distant and hollow to him as he didn’t live in it but lived right through it. But this poem felt different; it felt different also due to who read it and the setting. Never had he imagined himself, the once charmer-murderer who mutilated language and then mutilated bodies would find some merciful gesture in language spoken by a person who was once supposed to be his victim. The chain of events were so surprising that he had to sigh. No former self of him would know that some of his steps of salvation would come not even from an actual kiss but a poem entailing, verbally, sweetly, from the mouth of Waylon darling, about kissing…a spoken thing, a format familiar expressing things he had not known about though had the body to know about. Which he had only made to hate others. Such a shameful thing…but now he knew about kisses…

Unbeknownst to Eddie, Waylon had thought of a reporter’s desk. Journalists organising files and going through things. Underlining, highlighting passages and predicating their presences with pots-its and notes and questions. Proof-reading, proofs and looking through socio-political literature amongst stacks of other information. And he had heard Miles in the kitchen, making lunch, a rice-noodles treat with shrimp, long crunchy vegetables and there seemed to be some chocolate in the fridge and some chocolate icecream and Miles had decided to serve it. He wondered if Miles would ever come to the library  and see him in the books asking him what are all these and he can say they were all ways to help him heal and also maybe feel that flaws could be vaccinated against too. Or if he or Miles had a cache on each other and they both had their own “flowers in a dictionary” styles too. Waylon with his geeky stamps and cute stickers posted on some important pages while Miles just put paperclips, personalized seals that said cute things and also highlighted text (hell, even put annotations on what he felt was the mood of things between them). Waylon wondered why he thought that such an intense, emotional connection could just happen between them. Was he important enough to Miles Upshur? Aside this, would they ever have anything else?

Then he thought about the shark entry and thought if that could be analogous to ghosts in weird mountain areas. After all both of them had lived and worked in cities and maybe they hadn’t gone to mountainous ghostly regions but perhaps there was a living reality to it. After all, Miles was now living it. The so-called shark was the Walrider right? And it hurt did it not? To know that something now was so within him. Maybe he did do the mistake Levithan considered — that one rationality does not encompass all rationality all the time. Miles may have seen Walrider stop but he was enraged. And, he did have the rights to that anger because Wallie had slaughtered cows and maybe he felt it all. Yet, Miles had tried to be rational before. Waylon should have taken more care. Maybe he had been overconfident in his ability to calm Miles down. After all Miles is his own autonomous person and had all of his autonomous things just like Waylon was also an autonomous person with all his autonomous things. Waylon realised that he did want to save Miles from the fears but it was cocky to think he could do so well in such a short time span.

_I am not really thinking am I? Miles must feel miserable and I know he didn’t do the right thing. I think I made my point. But I have to say it to his face too. I have to give him a chance to speak to. I want to be friends with Miles, someone he can count on — I can’t delay the process. I can’t let this drag I need to talk to Miles soon. It will pretty wrong to leave this and him hanging so…_

There was a call from The Twins to eat lunch.

As they seated and ate Miles and Waylon made eye-contact.

Both knew they had to work or make some peace.

 

* * *

 

 

“I heard that you been doing readings here…is that a _thing_ now? You doing _readings_ …”

“What if _it_ is?”

“Hmm, thought you would do something more _classy_ …”

“I think you are forgetting that _I_ am the _one_ that _hit_ his _head_ not _you_.” Waylon stressed on that a lot.

Miles ruffled his own hair. Sighed deeply as he could. Walrider was elsewhere. And he had made it a point to tell him to pass time with The Twins or something. Eddie Gluskin was taking a shower or something of the like in his bedroom (probably even a nap after all the reading and talking). Miles wanted to talk to Waylon by himself. This should not involve other people. What they were having was both a rational and irrational argument of sorts. Both had valid points but Miles knew he was mostly in the wrong. But he wasn’t used to it like this. As a hardworking, meticulous reporter who possessed also meteoric and metronomic sense of punctuality, decorum and assertiveness this sort of thing was not really in his listings of what could have gone wrong. The reason it was such a big deal was that it could’ve been worse without a doubt. But Miles was really upset it outright immediately.

“What do you really want from me _Park_?” The last name made a collapse, an aggression, Miles after saying it knew it was cruel.

Waylon looked flabbergasted for a moment, in his eyes Miles saw a deep-cut hurt, then Waylon recovered, admirably, “The question shouldn’t matter to me much _Upshur_. You should ask it to yourself more and what it means for you to want what you want from yourself.”

“Stop the linguistics lingo!”  Miles yelled, anger somewhat radiating from him in some blackish and grey aura, but Waylon decided a distance was enough, “I mean what is it you want?!”

“Look at you can’t even go to a discussion without flaring up like some fire-bug!” Waylon persisted in holding his own for a while, “I can’t always tell you to calm down if you become agitated so easily and do damages.”

“Look at you so _strong_ and _brave_ …” Miles almost mockingly stated this and then proclaimed, “Anyways the techie has it all _figured_ out huh!”

“What do I look like-“ Waylon couldn’t finish as Miles took a step front and he took a step back but then decided to grit his teeth and position himself with utmost gravitas and Miles saw it.

“Do you know how fucking cool it is to blow a gasket without literally blowing gasket…” The aura in Miles was fluctuating and Waylon sighed seeing how it oscillated between fear, anger and frustration, “I mean seriously do you _know_?!”

The glowering energy made the lights flicker a bit in their study room. Waylon looked around hoping these events don’t bring other running. And yeah, he did understand but seeing now he understood better. Miles really didn’t have his old life anymore. All that he was accustomed, used to, knew by trade and/or passion were now somewhat been rendered obsolete. And he did know that feeling perhaps not so engraved to the spirit as a Walrider on his body but Waylon was now no longer a software engineer on a freelance scale. And something told him he wouldn’t be able to do that anytime soon. Though he was happy there were no restrictions on his diets and imaginations and other enjoyments he would miss deliciously typing on code for computers and feel the satiation of a complex system being manufactured but also organically adhering to principles exposed in mathematics and computer sequencing. He would really miss that.  But at the same time he knew that Miles still was more or less a journalist. He was going to eventually research more on Project Walrider now also for his own health. So Miles was still on somewhere near his element. It’s true Waylon wasn’t totally divorced from his either as he liked reading and information collection but he would miss the sort of jobs in his profession that he did.

And on a total different but relevant axis was his family. When he will see his boys again? Or Lisa for that matter? It was true that things between him and Lisa has been for over a year been problematic and that they were now _officially_ separated…yes, that last conversation, that crying, it was because he was finally _divorcing_ her. Even before what happened at Mount Massive they were contemplating it. Of course, they had remained a bit undecided on it but recent events really made things clear. He personally didn’t want to burden Lisa anymore though he loved her a lot. Now, he had to say that his romantic feelings for her were a bit lessened as they had been gradually for two or three years now. Lisa and he had both been a bit ambitious, maybe Lisa a bit more stable on it, but he had been stuck in a rut. This sticking in a rut did not help when you had two kids to also support but Lisa did try her best, he saw, that to inspire him and help him but the tactics weren’t working. Waylon had become a bit disenfranchised with what and how things were going on. It was not because of his family; they were the best thing that happened to him so far. It was rather _him_.

He expected a lot from himself and he also expected that he would accomplish them. Yet, it wasn’t happening. He was lacking a drive. He was not even working well enough and soon they had bad debts and finances were struggling. He hated to see Lisa work harder on accounts for him not being able to handle things. Lisa did still understand but later on she did try to contain her annoyance until one point they did have arguments with both of them or her breaking down crying. If Lisa asked what Waylon wanted professionally, he couldn’t answer. So, their separation happened more on Waylon feeling a loss of passion on what he loved doing. Lisa and he starting misaligning and after a while it was probably psychically decided amongst them. Though the Murkoff job came and they decided to pull through for one last ride. Ordeals can at times cement things, other times it makes apparent things previously present. It was true that as he had read that Lisa would nail Murkoff for abducting him. That she would go around looking for him. They were still a family and he was still the father of her kids as she was the mother to his. That won’t change. What had changed a year or so ago was that they longer were a couple. They couldn’t immediately explain it. But now Waylon could a bit. Lisa and he could or rather did not want to bond with each other anymore as Waylon was having adjustment issues. In the asylum he genuinely wanted to get back to Lisa. And even now he does. The same reasons he does love her but now more so as family and no longer really spouse and he had a feeling she felt the same. But he felt more angered that his marriage to Lisa was over because of him. Because he no longer could adapt with himself. And that is when he looked at Miles.

Miles had been breathing in-and-out, trying to get a calmer rhythm and Waylon had to say out loud: “At least you adapt quicker.”

“What?” Miles looked a bit casually at him.

“Look Miles…” Waylon started with a deep breath of determination, he was going to do well in trying to establish as much as he could, “I _do_ understand a bit. I _understand_ your anatomy has _changed_ a lot. And those words would still be an understatement. I know, it’s fucking frustrating. That you can’t scream and shout whenever you want because you are bonded to the Walrider and that makes a whole lot of interesting differences between you as a human and you also becoming a human host. But, I think you are forgetting that I have some hard qualms on me too. I have to be patient and understanding; I am not saying it’s a burden but we live with three Variants and a Walrider and I have to try to understand what all of you go through. But none of you has really asked what I go through. I have two sons and I did have a wife and I had a life with them. I also am their father and was a husband. I am now also divorced from them and my profession and you know I am not saying what I am going through really equates what you are going through but it is also  really **overwhelming** for me!

“I am just saying I know it is **hard** for _you_ and I know what happened that date was very taxing but I wanna trust that at least when I try to help you, you won’t hit me. I am already in a corner as you. We both don’t know what to say or do much. We both have to escape and we both are fugitives! Granted you have to master the Walrider but I just mean I am here to support you and in a way I have to master the Walrider too as in we both need to understand him and know what he needs. We are both in this together. Whether we like it or not. I know that in some form the three other guys are in this too. But I feel our case is unusual. We aren’t Variants. We aren’t residents of the asylum we aren’t well, you know, Murkoff people either. I wanna help you but I also need you to be responsive of that as much as possible. You are the person that I have trust most now. I am not being unfair to the others but you know what I mean. We were both in this as interlopers at Mount Massive and the sort of relationship we have with that place is far different than what they have to do that place! I mean it will obviously take me longer to understand them than you in this particular position. And we also escaped together and you have a good head on you as a reporter and I am just saying I need to trust you more and if I am putting a burden on you then tell me. I will take it slower and I will give you all the space I need I truly will. But, I just want both of us to try to strive for a disciplined pattern. That’s all. I know I may be being pretty stupid or cocky or even bitchy but bear with me for a few. Just can you…”

Miles looked at the strain in Waylon. _Walrider is right, he has, to many extents, been babysitting all of us. It is also pretty overwhelming. I only have me and Wallie to think on but he has to think about us all. Sure, he is admitting that he had had flaws too. I think I should be less cocky and more understanding of him as well…_ he remembered pining for Waylon and that surge of emotions, both sexual and affectionate that accompanied it and he realised that he craved and needed Waylon’s empathy and perceptions and hoped to give him the same. _He is like a timeless water-clock who knows how to measure my waves and I wanna be one for him too._

“Miles, I do sympathise with your plight.” Waylon continued, his hands and eyes trembling, “I am just…I can’t even think what it must be like to be on the sort of pressure you are in. I know to a large extent I am asking really high, very impossible standards from you. For that I am truly ashamed. You don’t know I am completely rotten with shame from the inside I feel I am betraying you in a way as well. You have had evert right to be angry at Wallie. You said there was raw cow meat in your mouth and I know that must have felt disgusting and difficult and I am just so overwhelmed at that time at what to do – I thought if we went back inside the lodge you would  have settled down and I could’ve helped clean you up  or we all could steady you. But I guess, I guess I should have let you be for a while…after all we all have our chaos that we wanna deal with ourselves…and you didn’t seem to be hurting anyone except Wallie who was hurting you back…what I am trying to say is –“

“I am sorry.” Waylon had somewhat cast his gaze and saw Miles say it, deeply, intently, attentively, “I am _so_ **sorry** Waylon.” His eyes looked so soft, “You don’t have to apologise for anything. You were only trying your best. I am a fool. I know you respect my feelings. And I am so happy a person like you understands me best right now.” And this time Miles reached out his hands and encapsulated Waylon’s and Waylon’s hands limply set there for a while…he saw the way they zigzagged again attempting to make a harmony of bones and sinews, Waylon marvelled at them as Miles continued with an impassioned tone complimenting the sudden strength of grip he put on their enjoined hands as with ease, as though he was nibbling through food and stared with an intense feeling at Waylon, “I am so sorry. I was also taking you for granted. I should have apologised sooner. I hurt you and I can’t bear with it. I feel like I abused you –“ Waylon tried to interrupt but Miles pressed on, “I don’t like feeling that way that I had hurt you and I wanna know genuinely how to make it right. You have the **right** to say that you wanna be at least **safe** around me, at least **enough** to _talk_ and _discuss_ things with me, when so many things are getting fucked you! I will surely make an **effort** to do that! And I hope you can forgive me. Really, I really hope you can forgive me.”

Miles saw that his hands shivered and rocked and he even gripped tighter onto Waylon’s hands as though without them he was a flower that would soon be ripped of his petals and go and be mauled by the winds. Waylon at this time held his hands securely back. Felt the jaggedness of the bones of the missing fingers, innocuously caressed them as if his fingers were talking with Miles’s fingers in some code that almost spelled “I can feel your sadness, your misery…” Like fleshy sticks inviting earth, air, water, flames and stones their hands rubbed in an affectionate loop both consciously and unconsciously aware of. Their flesh bonded and dispersing so many different elements and the blood steamed and compressed on them like the sleek safety and comfort of blankets. No more shivering from Miles. As his senses acute he felt almost a heartline in the entwined fingers of his and Waylon’s. Waylon felt the symmetries shift and align and realign like the robustness of lungs. Both of them were palpable again, punctuated again, in each other’s’ brackets and apostrophes and all manners of reasoning. They felt safe. In each other’s words and fingers knowing each other.

Then Miles just edged a little closer put out his arm, felt for the back of Waylon’s and soon without much delay he just slowly embraced his friend. And almost immediately, Waylon surprised him by holding him back tighter with both arms engulfing him in that warmth of grass and pixelated scents of many varieties. Miles then, as though it was both wide-sourced and also a sequence, placed his hand on the back of Waylon’s head gently. He heard a soft sigh and saw Waylon’s stitches. His wound was still a red, angry gash. It had broken skin, but it was healing with the flecks of purple, green, yellow and blue on the sides, like some paint daubs scattered about. Miles felt a palm grip his heart and a knife wedged in his brain. He felt the wound in his heart as though his own internal chasm was hurt and then with tenderness touched the wound skilfully as though he was proofreading some article as though his life depended on it. Waylon breathed a bit quick for a moment but then his eyes closed and as he felt Miles slowly with so much care and with fingers pliant and perfect in caresses touch the wound but also etch against his hair. There was an insurmountable pleasure and happiness in this: Miles felt he was healing both Waylon and himself. His lips went near the wound and he wanted to bash his own skull for hurting Waylon, he felt someone like him deserved no angry bruises except the clean and temporary compasses of love-bites suckled to conjoin moans of pleasure…yup, maybe he should just stick to caressing him at the moment…but truly he though no one beautiful as Waylon deserved to get hurt in any way. And if he did he wanted to see Waylon get up, or help him up, and see him dominate with his aesthetics and his heart once more for Waylon had that God-given talent and blessing.

Waylon felt Miles’s shoulders. So cramped as though his bones had beaten themselves over to some ragged structure. He hated the slumped fissure of them. Miles was confident and collected like a beautiful, classical typewriter who was a consummation between fleshes, nodes and reels the androgyny of machinery and nature. The articulation of his swift bones being dampened by him and the incident felt inexcusable to him. So he pressed a bit more firmly and felt his breathing. It was calm so he nuzzled the side of his face a bit softly to show that they had an acceptance now. Miles slowly stroked his hair and wound and breathed a ”hmm” and a sigh to acknowledge a certain peace  he was now feeling. Waylon then used his own nimble fingers to softly scuffle and caress Miles’s hair and Miles had to stifle a bit of a half-moan and half-sigh and it came as a slow noise from his throat but then he just basked in the delicate and considerate ministrations. The inexhaustible warm smells in Miles like some fireplace and some wet tree also mixed with grass got Waylon invigorated as well. They both smelled of rain though it was not accurate where their clouds were. Their breathing malleable as soft earth and also dazzling lightning. To a poetic observer it would be indistinguishable, their embrace, from making love. The hitches, sighs, the careful accompaniment of hands and palms, resting and active, like a languid seizing of both bodies during lovemaking, with their perforated intensities and permeable equidistance.

At some points they shuddered as though afraid to let the other go. Or, fearful to be consumed so  sweetly and so passionately by the other that no act of desecrating cannibalism could ever mean to copy such a consummation or even come close to enveloping the timorous, tremors and tangibles of the feeling. It automated on a visceral but the spine with its understanding of cortex and synovial fluids also knew the multiplicity of dimensions. Space was augmented and their embrace was filling with the chains of a spiritually dominated conversation that also submissively cajoled subtleties in both electrical jacks and fleshy tingling. There’s was not truly an only episodic feeling, it was like a circular spiralling, a dance of many magnets that no hexagonal or orthogonal means of production could truly fully understanding with only sex or friendship as a consumption. There napes almost intermix. The muscularity ridges of Miles’s neck and the accentuated grooves and definitions of Waylon’s both soaked each other with sweat. The sweat was aerated by the feeling of each other’s closeness. A closeness that elucidated their fervent chaotic but harmonic cores. Two bodies and souls looking at each other and palpitating as though they had seen an enclosed universe in each other.

“I am sorry too Miles.”

They both looked at each. Their noses touched in a few intervals. They almost blushed, both of them, at the same time. But then they regained a bit of distance and smiled enormously wide at each other, “I hope you know that Miles.” Waylon said with more seriousness, “I know it’s hard for you. I don’t want to push each other away,”

“Yeah, well, don’t stress on it anymore.”  Miles smiled, and before they disembarked from the embrace, he ruffled, carefully and playfully, making sure not to hurt his bruise.

Then suddenly Waylon punched him right on the face.

Miles looked flabbergasted for a second. Grabbed his face.

Waylon shrugged, “Unlike you I haven’t been actively breaking stuff to release my anger and so well, _quid pro quo_. Besides Eddie told me not to be a pushover, sorry Miles, but I agree on that.”

Miles massaged his face, and then smiled, “You know, for once…” he grinned widely, “I agree with that misogynistic-misandrist son-of-a-bitch because you shouldn’t let anyone push you around not even yourself.” Then smiling some more, “I shouldn’t let Walrider-status or anything of me make me think it’s okay to just let out steam or whatever in whichever way I want. I am being my own pushover that way, fucked up.” Then with a sheepish grin, “Don’t you find it kinda ironic that a guy who is so lead by his _psychosis_ saying that to you? I mean I actually did a report on him. That guy was a major fuck. Waylon…” Now seriously and sensitively, “I was so worried when I saw you mixing with him even Wallie was. I mean the damn Walrider was too.”

“I think partly he realises this now so he said it to me.” Waylon nodded and agreed, “And, well, maybe at that time his psychosis made him think by doing those he _wasn’t_ being a pushover though it was **antithetical** to that definition. Like he was being a pushover to himself and his father.” Then Waylon smiled, “But I am glad you were worried about me. Though Eddie did help me fix my wounds. I know he is not fully well, you know…I mean…I don’t know how to trust him after everything. It’ll be hard and I think Eddie knows that too.”

“Do you think it’s wise to trust him?”  Miles asked, his tone was a bit unbiased and in a way so was his heart.

“In any other situation no.” Waylon looked at him and said this with much contemplation, “I do not think in the asylum if I had the chance and need I would hesitate to kill Eddie. The guy almost castrated me and he killed countless prisoners in a very disgusting way. Sure maybe his victims were not innocent but he had no right to mutilate them, castrate them and murder them that way. Yes, it’s true that the Morphogenic engine addled his already addled brain but I do think that the level of cruelty he exhibited was purely inexcusable.” Then Waylon stared deeper both at Miles and beyond, “And now Eddie is starting to know this. Not completely there but on the verge of it. Eddie killed because he thought that killing is the only thing he could do. So, I wanna tell him it’s not. I just want to see if he comprehends this. It would be also cruel not to try to explain to him his wrongdoings from both visceral and philosophical perspective.”

“Granted but Waylon…” Miles emphasized it, they were both still standing, now their hands automatically went on each other again, as though they were both the secure hinges on a door, “Surely, the therapists tried didn’t they? I mean I was shifting through our collected documents and I saw that he had a tendency to lie to his psychologists. To, as the doctor put it, curry their favour. I believe he is horrible because he is manipulative. I mean if you think on it Murkoff and him have little distinctions.”

“I know there is that danger.” Waylon nodded, “I am always aware of that. I am always aware that he had a sociopath’s charm and a predatory urge to kill. You know I know he likes authoritative things but not authority. I got that when he was chasing me. Like how he liked the authoritative functions of home and marriage but could not even himself get to the authority of being a husband or acknowledge a wife’s authority. You will notice that he was called the groom and that he sought brides and talked about family as a distant future. None of those things had an immediate future. Because in the long run he may not have wanted them fully but loved the idea of them. It just made sense to him because he was traumatised by the authoritative bounds of family and marriage so he thought he could master his abuse by killing others. I also think he chose women…” Here Waylon trailed to an almost whisper, “Because he himself thought of himself as an _incomplete_ woman.”

Miles gazed at him, “ _Seriously_?”

“I was thinking of how he practised and sewed womenswear and all of that. Not that men don’t. It’s just the _way_ he _presented_ it. It almost felt like he was envious of the women he killed. That they could be things he couldn’t be. I also think he saw _himself_ in _them_ too. And that made him more angry because he couldn’t be like them no matter what he did, as he was born male and wanted to also accept the maleness of him which he felt was cracked by being ‘feminized’ or so that’s how he saw his rapes. Also, there is a cultural taboo on rape. There is also more of a cultural taboo on male rape. Perhaps, he envied women their cultural accepted status as viable victims of rape as well. Men, as a group, cannot easily admit rape on the grounds that it had been very forcefully categorised as a female crime. I think his misogyny also began from there. And his misandry was always on men who could seem ‘effeminate’ or perfectly non-machismo and be accepted as a man. Or, also the opposite, men who exhibited machismo or rather aggressive masculine-cultural stuff could easily so integrate in places and spaces he felt really redundant or he could not go there. Of course, these are just my hypotheses. And, these do not excuse Eddie of his crimes because killing and mutilating men and women who know nothing about your insecurities, are not part and parcel of your abuse, who do not understand why you are killing them and even if they do they know it’s on the grounds on your own problems is a **crime** , regardless and whatever.”  

Miles smirked a bit, “You sure assessed him well. Why do you think the therapists on Mount Massive were not really getting anywhere?”

“I think because their interests were made on the intentions of harvesting Eddie’s psychopathy and not really curing it. They did not want to think of Eddie as a person or even a criminal whose criminal intentions and patterns have to be really be documented. They thought of him as a _thing_ so basically they got some basics out of him.” Waylon assessed his thoughts.

“Why do you think that categorically and specifically Eddie ignored his victims Waylon?”

“From what I deduced, his psychosis feels they were unworthy of his love so acknowledging them as dead or anything would be expressing a connection he felt with them so he didn’t wanna do that.” Waylon looked in deep thoughts once more, “I think I am right. From what I browsed and studied on crime and killers.”

“From the statistics you are not far off.” Miles looked impressed, “Serial killers are infamously and heinously known for not considering their victims human. To Eddie maybe human is _only_ someone _he_ can love. That is very selfish. That is very _inhuman_ in itself.”

“Eddie’s ways of thinking are fucking warped to say the least.” Waylon surveyed the piece of information, “And yes maybe he likes me so he thinks I am human. But I will see if that changes.”

Miles then asked concerned, “Do you think that will change?”

“Eddie at the moment wants to be someone I can count on. Obviously there might be a like there but…Eddie also doesn’t want me to be a bride anymore and has accepted that I am a man. That is some sort of progress. However, I can say that my distrust of Eddie has put him exactly in his own fucked up thoughts.”

“Explain.” Miles interests looked piqued.

“If I don’t trust and care about Eddie and if I don’t acknowledge him then I can also discard him as being non-human.” Waylon looked intensely, “Eddie may like me but Eddie’s usual pattern was that he would be kind as long as someone was useful to his love or whatever. And I already told him that is not love of any calibre. But at the moment, in a sense, I am not useful to his love like that anymore. And he is struggling, I know he is, he doesn’t know what to do with me and he also fears that I can reject him if I have no use for him. This is where Eddie’s thoughts are fucked up. A person is not loved only for that kind of usefulness. You love because you know and see a person in various ways. They have flaws that beautifully attaches to your own. And they have perfections that transcend any ideal you could have thought of. Eddie is untaught in these things. To him love was like a rough draft of dressmaking. It’s not that all. That is why he could never accept a bride, no matter the mutilated things, because to him a bride is a dress and soon after the dress is down the ‘dress’ becomes a wife and so ceases to be a dress or something like that I suppose. His thinking was pretty limited and based more on a perverse fantasy that convoluted sex and ruined lust and all manners of things.” Waylon then added, “Humanity is not defined solely by who you can love or not. Humanity is defined by acknowledging what was wrong or what you could not love was human as well. Humanity is also traversing on the plane that idealised perfection can be limited too because you feel it has ended things rather starting them. Humanity is also the capacity to feel for someone you know you will never possess in any way. Humanity is more than an umbrella it’s a stratosphere concept” Waylon then almost bit his tongue, “Or, so I think.”

“Are you sure that you are not a philosophy major and just a software engineer?” Miles sheepishly grinned.

“Much of mathematics also basis itself on philosophy well, the history does you know.” Waylon grinned back.

“I will try to remember that.” Miles smirked and Waylon chuckled. Then Miles looked at his hands still intermeshed like the joined thing with Waylon’s own. They had both talked about a man who has killed but held each other while they did that as though steadying their paces and keeping each other firm. Miles did not recall doing something like this with anyone anytime soon. “You read books with him though.” Miles entered a new enough topic, “What was it like?”

“It was engaging. Eddie asked pertinent questions.” Waylon answered.

“Sorry but Wallie said you guys were reading _Disgrace_ and I am thinking would Eddie get that consequences are not only singular to a person themselves? I mean after knowing the plotline of that book.”

“Actually,” Waylon looked impressed now, “I hadn’t really asked him that question though we did discuss on karma and fate and all that.” Waylon had to admit that journalist instincts, used correctly, could extract the right kind of questions.

“Killers are specific, they are specialists in perversion and debauchery. They may speak pseudo-philosophies but they are in the end, limited. They do not understand the ramifications of things in the long-run. If you think about crimes they are pretty limited. They can only seem to satisfy an immediate thing; however, that in itself is always **questionable**. They are not really sustainable. That is why they are crimes.”

Waylon internally applauded Miles’s definitions as they appealed to him and also gravitated on his core as relevantly as could be: “You know there was one question I did posit, despite trigger warnings, I told him to see how the people viewed the rape and/or coercion as a gendered phenomenon you know how the book’s professor was speaking total crap and how his male colleagues were somewhat buying into his shit. I think that struck a chord.”

“You do think the guys here are a bit like that huh? I mean the Mount Massive psychologists and psychiatrists?”

Waylon paid good attention to Miles’s question, they probably had the same answer but Waylon didn’t mind being rhetorical about this, “I do think to a certain extent they entertained the same ideas like Eddie but here is the thing. Eddie is a diagnosed criminal and mentally fucked up person. They are not. They are being selfish and disgusting to another level. No scrupulous man would think so methodically on this even if the thought, due to derision or lack of judgment or even fancy, enters his mind would give it credibility. I had suspicions that all of them were as amoral and psychopathic and sociopathic or more so than the patients in top gear there.”  

“Bummer huh…” Miles pondered, “I feel as though they had no qualms about seeing their other selves in therapy with themselves. Like two bears having a conversation on which type of wine goes with which man, fisherman and hunter, huh?”

“I guess so.” Waylon looked sad.

“It’s kinda like how seeing your own self on another angle you think you look better or something. Do you think Blake would call this a tiger being burned alive in an oven and being eaten by a lamb with something akin to canines?” Miles posited.

“Goats?”

“Huh.”

“You know in Norse mythology Thor had a pair of goats, so I heard, that he then also ate when he was hungry. But the he bought them back to life; the only thing was he had to make sure the bones of the goats were untampered with nor else they be dead for good. I think this tale is a masculine way of retelling milk-getting as milk is usually a womanly thing or considered an infant’s thing but meat is like considered you know manly in some cases. So he is milking the goat of their meat and then if he doesn’t destroy the ‘udders’ in this case bones then well he can milk them again.” Waylon spoke the myth watching Miles go “wtf” in a matter of minutes. “I think the goats were special too.”

“So basically, the Murkoff personnel all had to keep the bones of a façade intact to milk the profits and also hide that like the patients they were also goats only with untouched bones. Interesting metaphor.” Miles and Waylon let go of each other’s’ hands and just went and sat down.  

“You know the Walrider is a bit like that too.” Waylon theorised, “I mean he is nanomachines and if the integrity of those nanomachines are compromised he can’t be fully formed again either.”

“Good point.” Miles smiled. “So, sorry, but I did have Wallie spy on you guys a bit.” Waylon gave a look that he figured, “You read poems and Levithan’s _The Lover’s Dictionary_?” But then Miles hurriedly added, “Sorry, about the spying…I mean…I just was curious…you know we were separated so I just wanted to know –“

“That’s okay. I asked Wallie about you too. You told him to spy on me but he became a bit conspicuous so when Eddie wasn’t really watching I asked him how you were doing. I found out you were making lunch and then I heard you from the kitchen.” Waylon had to smile a bit. “I guess I was spying on you too with Wallie.”

“That little brat…” Miles snorted than gave something akin to a guffaw and giggle, “Being too comfortable doing his own things huh. And I am supposed to be his host when a petulant bitch.”

“I think he thought that he was helping us by being mutual cupbearer or something.” Waylon smiled a bit more, Miles saw his lips, those quivering yet natural tides of beauty, he almost instinctively bit his own lips, Waylon saw it and thought that it looked like a perfect cocoon for the tongue to rest and ride on, but those thoughts aside, from the both of them, Waylon smiled a bit more and said, “I am happy he is autonomous you know or has some autonomy. It is always good to decide things for yourselves, whether right or wrong, Wallie shouldn’t be a puppet to his or your impulses and neither should either of us.”

Miles nodded, “Well, about those books, strange choices…”

“Well, they were nearby…” Waylon actually picked up Levithan’s book, “Wanna play the letter roulette and see which ones we come up with?” There was a glint both earnest and innocent in his eyes that coalesced perfectly with a semi-half-hooded expression from Miles. It was like darkness and light at play with a ball of emotional energy. It was subtly penetrative as many circular things are: they are the orbital sockets, the permeation points and also the nucleic centres of activity. Learning someone and them learning you is also an activity that polishes and refines but also keeps the jaggedness and serrations of a tactile organism.

“Sure.” Miles grinned and pointed out “y” and Waylon pointed out “o” —

**obstinate** , _adj._ Sometimes it becomes a contest: Which is more stubborn, the love or the two arguing people caught within it?

 **yesterday** , _n._ You called to ask me when I was coming home, and when I reminded you that I wasn’t coming home, you sounded so disappointed that I decided to come home.

 

Both of them chuckled. “That sure sounds fine.” Miles laughed, at the back of his head he was thinking how ironically this _relates_ to _them_ and how _easily_ they were able to point it out, “I guess you know some of these intimately already. I mean you have a wife right?”

Waylon got a bit quiet: “ _Had_.”

Miles immediately looked pretty focused. They let a weight of a few minutes pass. Where they soaked in the leather armchairs and heard the slow revolutions of the fan overheard. There were no more rain tonight yet the afterglow breezes were still cool and waves in motion. The window was only slightly open as amongst few intervals the gust of winds chilled and was enormously fast and heavy: it could blow away papers and even obfuscate vision. Waylon put then book down gently as though it contained the fossils of something too and the calcium embers still rigorously gestated a marrow. A marrow that knew him too well.  Miles gave a slight cough and riffled his own hair. That was his cue of nervousness or pondering and even in hindsight Waylon thought that he was a natural at it with his beautiful posture more elegant than his code-crammer’s slouch and also his luscious hair magnetically connected finely with his palms and fingers. Despite his severed ones. Waylon had a similar trick too though he tilted his head more and soon gave more eye-contact to the person on the receiving end of the gesture.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Miles seriously looked a bit disappointed.

“It’s _not_ you.” Waylon recovered the situation, “I would actually like to talk to _you_ about it but…” Waylon clasped his hands, “It is such a long thing and I don’t know where to begin.”

“Begin somewhere.” Miles urged putting a soft palm on his shoulder, “I will ask the necessary questions. Besides we don’t need to talk the whole about it.”

“It happened a year or two ago we started feeling we weren’t getting each other. I was more at fault. I got into a slump and no matter how hard Lisa tried to stimulate me out of it I wasn’t able to get out of it. To the point where she managed most of the financial expenses and it got costly and irregular and then we had debts. Being a freelancer is hard enough at times but being an uninspired one is professional poison.” Waylon almost became teary, the he did sob, “I let her down and I am supposed to be her man, her husband, her friend.”

Miles held him a bit, “Yes, you did let her down maybe not intentionally.” He wasn’t going to be soft on it and knew Waylon could handle the truth, “But when it mattered you did take this job right? You wanted to make things right, right? At the end you did try to be all those things again, her husband, her friend, her ally and her man.”

“The boys knew we might get a divorce but before that…” Waylon wiped his tears, “I wanted to make things good and proper. I am their father and I was still _her_ husband. I had responsibilities and I wasn’t gonna let Lisa handle things all by herself.  Not anymore.” Then with a few more tears, “If I had known what bastards Murkoff were and what they did to people. I would have busted my ass with other jobs and not do this at all.”

“That is true but you know Waylon….” Rubbing his shoulders Miles offered a  tenderness he himself forget he had, “I had been researching those guys and even I had no idea about Project Walrider and all of this Variant business so I can say it’s safe to say we both were in way over our heads.”

“Yeah…” Waylon looked around him, “You know us talking about these kind of memories in this setting reminds me of this YouTube movie you know by this group called Wong Fu Productions, it’s  written by this really talented writer called Wes, it was called –“

“Shell.” Miles said it with Waylon.

“Oh my God, you say that movie?” Waylon looked happy again.

“Yeah, it’s one of my favourite short films ever.” Miles smiled, “You are right that Wes guy is pretty talented. Yesfir made me see that movie with her.”

Waylon asked gently, “Who is Yesfir?”

“Oh, she uh, she used to be a girlfriend of sorts…” Miles looked somewhat ashamed.

“Of _sorts_?”

“Yeah…” For some reason Miles became suddenly upset and teary and Waylon saw this and slowly touched his hand and shoulder too, “I am sorry.” Miles realised he was crying, “You know sometimes you are a bastard and you get to know it after shit like this happens. I really loved Yesfir, she is a poet, and I really wanted to be with her but…but I was scared and I was a stuck-up ass and I never even introduced her properly as my girlfriend anywhere and at one point she called me out on it and told me though she enjoyed our relationship she knew I wasn’t _matured_ enough for one. You know I got mad but she was _absolutely_ right. I am a fool. Yesfir has always supported me…” Miles looked at Waylon, “You know I am not around and she sent me a mail she was still willing you go to the police though we are no longer a couple and she was one of the first people who took the trouble going to my old apartment and trying to see what’s wrong. And I was a fuck to such a person.”

“You are lucky Miles that she still cares about you.” Waylon smirked a bit, “If someone did that to me I probably be more angry at them for a longer period of time even if we were friends again. But I hope you did try making things right too.”

Miles gave a grateful look to Waylon and he returned the look favourably with warmth. Then he said, after a while, “You know Eddie read Umberto Eco’s _The Name of the Rose_ and liked it as a murder mystery involving monks.”

“Well, that was the good postmodernist treat but what I liked about the book is also the interpersonal dimensions between the monks, the intrapersonal wavelengths of them also communicating about various things. When we look to monks we think strict discipline and you know codes of silence and all that, or studious natures. I liked how the book showed that monks are pretty well varied in so many attitudes. They have so many interests. I liked this interiority of them discussed in the book. Wouldn’t you agree?” Miles asked him as though it was always natural and organic to ask Waylon these sorts of questions. He had now composed himself and Waylon looked at ease too.

“It kind of reminds me of Fermat’s Last Theorem when I think about them.” Waylon suddenly blurted out.

“Well, isn’t that a mathematics thing?” Miles looked on piqued interests, “Explain there…”

“Well, Fermat says that there can be no satisfaction in the equation in the thing aⁿ+bⁿ=cⁿ if n is greater than 2. Fermat got that thing in 1637 and it took a mathematician called Andrew Wiles up to 1994 to find a proof that could somewhat counterbalance that notion. The funny thing was he used a lot of different methods to solve this mainly ring homomorphism and ring isomorphism. Meaning a system that considers a set of functions but also inverses them at times. So it was the entropy of the belief, in my opinion, that static-logic of only one preferential system is needed to solve problems but Wiles merged both sorts of matters into one thing. Kinda like how postmodernism fuses both the ancient and the modern and how Eco, after so many centuries, decided to be multifarious in his study of monks’ lives.” Waylon scratched his head, “Sorry, that was a way I could make sense of it.” Then Waylon added, “Besides, after getting hit I thought reading and talking would help me know if I had any injuries or any concentration problems. It was my bug-testing software.”

Miles looked affectionately, a bit guilty, but so relieved that he felt the heavens had sent him manna, “ Well, your brain working great and your mind is finding its own little proofs like sunspots huh?” Miles grinned widely and ruffled Waylon’s hair, “You know let me bandage and stitch that wound? Hmm?”

Waylon smiled and nodded and Miles got the appropriate things.

It was true that Eddie was a specialist in stitching and did so with the accuracy as though he was in them but Waylon liked the idiosyncrasies of Miles’s own stitching. It made messy but tractable loops and the bandaging was done with a softness that looked like as though he was binding a journal and at times that approached worked more better structurally and emotively than lace. Though, it was true Eddie maintained more distance but his skill was too automatic that the certain distance did not impair him.

“You know your talk on entropies, statics and different systems gave me an idea…” Miles attentively cared for Waylon’s bruises, “It’s about Wallie, he is intimidated by wide spaces and I think I can work on it with ring homomorphism and isomorphism and all that, you know the general idea of those things.”

“Huh? Are you _sure_?” Waylon asked as the bandaging and stitching was complete. And he saw through securing it.

“Yeah.” Miles then smiled, “Talks with you are enlightening to me. Thanks.”

“Talks are enlightening with you too.” Waylon responded with a smile too.

They both held each other’s shoulders. An archway had been made. Flesh knew the spirit and both resonated as the night waded into midnight and they heard clocks chime and their breaths intermixed with the universal ballet of order and flux.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem and the words do come from the books mentioned I do not own them. The poem Yesfir wrote is however mine XD
> 
> As usual do not know much about psychology NOT AN EXPERT ON SERIAL KILLERS, THEIR REHABILITATIONS AND ALL THAT just wrote what I THOUGHT WAYLON WOULD THINK. So yeah this is fictions and truths be MORE STRANGER.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed Miles and Waylon making up guys. Their time together. I really enjoyed writing this chapter and I hope you guys enjoyed reading it. So please comment away :D


	15. Blaring Switches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an exclusively Jeremy Blaire chapter on what the hell the guy has been up to till now  
> And it has a VERY long and strange lemon/explicit sex scene at the end |2k| in breadth so I hope you all enjoy
> 
> Consider this an interval of sorts or rather to see what the Murkoffs are Jerkoffs too huh? Hehehe

 

** Blaring Switches **

 

There wasn’t much on Jeremy Blaire’s mind aside work. There were certain circulatory papers that needed reading and assisted proofing and he would do them with his assistant. Actually, it was a shared personnel. One of Wernicke’s numerous aides, a Sasha Ouellet. Actually recently he had been working with Lewis LeBlanc and Vivian Slavic as well. Lewis a bit less at times as he was the main or rather dedicated support for Rudolf Wernicke. Jeremy was also convalescing. His insides hurt like hell and he vomited blood on a regular basis that at times he would stay in bed all day with the transfusions. Being almost torn from the inside was **no** _laughing_ matter. Many doctors reviewed his anatomy. There were many who also worked in research as well as he was Murkoff’s top brass. There was a Danielle Austen who seemed to do his bloodwork daily; she compared notes on his charts and also to other charts (and at this point Blaire knew to keep his mouth shut) and she did her work elegantly and with parse tones. She said that his health was good and that he took to the mystery serum quite well. Jeremy did not ask what happened if he didn’t take it well because after working in Mount Massive one knew that there were dangers to this kind of science that was better left unexplained. At least for now.

Jeremy did love order a lot. He loved order, even if it was anarchic order, he loved the smoothness of satin sheets, folded laundry with the neat squares — as a child he was known to take to crafts and geometric shapes so easily and naturally. Even if made mistakes on drawing circles and triangles he would readily erase neatly and draw them again and again to perfection. And had as a child had a brief stint with origami. He loved that the folds would do so much and make new building blocks; he loved Legos too and he also loved breaking marbles to see what they looked like from the inside. Jeremy also broke Legos to see what kind of order came from that too. It was something that displeased other children: made their erroneously complain to his parents who would never not take his side. His father was proud that he was a manly person (how he summed it) and his mother was proud that he was handsome and intelligent and that he got all the girls he wanted even if they were ‘petty fucks’. All that he did worked out for him so he hadn’t had the time to ever consider when it wouldn’t work out for him. His life had been all good things, materialistically anyway, he had no dearth in money, expenditures and the primavera of education too. Jeremy had been a good enough student, actually good enough to get into good schools without backing though there was both financial and familial backing. Yes, he wasn’t the nerd but was intelligent enough. He didn’t have to always do well in school, his parents took care of it, but when he did he excelled enough. Though he wasn’t really passionate about studying or anything. To him everything was order and competition. And that had to be maintained. And he took pride in maintaining it.

That is why even now he worked and did small jobs for the Murkoff conglomeration. Though he knew and this was factuality that could not be ignored: that he was somewhat _demoted_. Yeah, he was still top brass but that brass wasn’t shiny enough anymore. The consortium commended his efforts at Mount Massive though they also did make snide remarks on his failure; however, in the end there was approbation which he needed to survive because unless some God given miracle happened he hadn’t planned how he could escape given if he became Damocles by the minute.  It was not like he met the consortium. They were a selective bunch as these sorts of things go. Though he actually met one of their top brass Ariel Swanson. Who had come bearing the accolades and then she said that they hope to get many valuable information from him concerning the Mount Massive chapter (so they called it and to them it was a chapter while to him it was heavy-set tome). Jeremy had politely answered any perfunctory questions Miss Swanson had. There weren’t many because she seemed to have reviewed much about him. These were just pleasantries and also well ‘ice-breakers’ in a way. Swanson had obviously heard of him and Trager, Vigalondo, Eisner, Wolfram, et al. Some of those fuckers didn’t obviously survive. Like he was pretty sure he saw Brunton and Housten’s dead bodies, one was hanging and pretty much tangled in blood and exposed organs and bone. And Housten sat like a stump, his eyes had been gouged out, limbs removed. Well, that was a violent way to die. Then he was sure that Walsh died too. And then…well, then there was Trager. For some reason he hoped that Trager had died too. After all he didn’t know what the Morphogenic engine had done to his onetime colleague and passable friend.

Swanson was an odd one. At that time he hadn’t known why but he later remembered seeing a jet of violet-blackish smoke or something around her. And after meeting Darian he was quick to piece that she was harbouring a fucking Walrider as well. And that thought made him as uncomfortable as those childhood dreams of getting to school naked. There was a lot he didn’t know. And at times he debilitating if that knowledge could be power or rather his temporary ignorance was manageable bliss that he should procrastinate on and not better the scales as of yet. The questions were directed to his health and even how he was getting on and what were even his hobbies. It was like some silly interview but Jeremy knew how to ace interviews and exams so he didn’t really care and answer them nonchalantly. Truth was, he was bit rattled. To say he wasn’t would be a like. His future, even the imminent one, was pretty precarious to say the least.  He didn’t know what to do or how he was useful.

Swanson also talked about him about Cindy Eisner as he had once gone out with a date with her, much to the chagrin of Kurt Vigalondo. Jeremy pretty much said things he felt that everyone on that authority knew about Eisner — that she worked hard, was observant, was a bit up-tight, and lady-like and Jeremy wasn’t totally into her because she seemed sweet but also a bit of a princess and a bit spoiled. He would, internally, think of her as high maintenance. That would have still worked if she knew how to be wild and have fun. Yet Cindy did not drink much, abstained from recreational drugs, was a bit uppity and hated cheap liquor so she really also did not like drinks like tequila and shots  which she found  beneath her many a times. Also she was somewhat conservative and preferred exclusive relationships. Or rather, even if she did orgy she would do a house party or masquerade first.  She liked order too but in a different way than him: she was more disciplined and worked more. That is when he came to know that Cindy’s father, and she by relation, were members of the consortium. And Blaire almost blanched as he hardly knew that as Cindy was snobbish but also well a dedicated sort of employee. Well, she did probably have daddy to please. He did smile to hear she was alive with her bustling Romeo Vigalondo. There was a mention of Wolfram as being in ICU and he acknowledged that. None of them had come to pay him a visit. Not that he really expected them too. It was a fact that they may no longer be colleagues and hardly, they ever were friends.

Waylon Park, that guy may have visited him…Jeremy Blaire that was somewhat true. Waylon with his kind eyes and smile asking Austen if Blaire was doing better and asking if Jeremy would be allowed any  treats and if he was allowed would buy him a chocolate-strawberry cake with all its mushy nonsenses. And the smile was something he actually wouldn’t mind. And Waylon seemed like the person who wouldn’t mind feeding Jeremy cut-out apples for fun, for care and his inborn gentleness. Jeremy though if he would accidentally-on-purpose softly bite Waylon’s fingers for fun. For some sexual excitement then slowly, with some ceremony, drag him to his bed, straddle him and kiss his mouth to kingdom come…literally he would come. Jeremy had abhorred and pretty much been adverse to gentleness. Funny, how tables change at times. Quickly too. To Jeremy anything viscerally substantial had to be rough or akin to a certain toughness. That was how his father had also defined manliness. How his mother had praised and shared her fondness for his rugged looks. There was no mention of softness rather it was pointed out as ‘limp dicks’, ‘pounded cunts’, ‘cock loose and out’, ‘blue balls’, ‘womanly goods’ and all the words under the sun that meant weak, unman, unsexed, incompetent and disorder.

But something about Waylon Park’s gentleness and softness and caring seemed to him, pretty **masculine** , and durable. And he sometimes wanted it. Beside him. _In_ him. Or, him, going _into_ Waylon. Yes, he also hated Park for some of the same reasons because he didn’t understand why Waylon possessed such things and was in _his_ world. It made no sense. But while he spent hours in bed he thought about Waylon’s concerned eyes, his pouting but relaxed lips, his cool yet comfortable hands that knew also how to give warmth. He wanted to know what it was like to have both rough but gentle sex with such a person. He had thought of Waylon underneath him gasping sweetly to catch his breath as he sucked hard on his nipple. Something about Waylon dazed in ecstasy really made his dick go from drowsy to wide awake. He also heard Waylon sigh and cry out a bit in surprise. That voice stayed with him. It was so indefatigably amorous and sweet. He wanted to know if Waylon was always such a voice box of erotic melodies whenever he fucked. To know that Waylon would embrace him like that sometimes appealed to him. Yes, he monitored Waylon, did once trash his desk, and bought him better coffee in secret.  He did study Waylon because he was _different_. It was not _solely_ erotic. But now when he felt alone he wanted Waylon next to him doting and caring.

The funniest crap was the sudden reverse of agendas. Once he was top dog and Waylon being imprisoned and becoming a possible Variant was no one’s business. Not a simple drop of concern. Now he was the extra lace and Waylon was an asset with Miles Upshur. It was so fucking ironic. He would laugh but he didn’t have the energy laughing at his own tragedy. The tragedy that he now was a peg down and was pretty much a consultant. For the Mount Massive details and for understanding a bit more about Waylon Park. They also did ask other people but many personnel who worked with him and died and from what he last heard Andrew Lanes was pretty incapable and incontinent presently that they didn’t really want to interview someone who seems to be a bit more than traumatised and smelled as though he was the dilapidated toilets of some rundown alley or street. Aside the stench Andrew exhibited weird erections and was a mess in general and so he wasn’t sane enough or healthy enough to be interrogated or questioned.

Jeremy hated how Waylon became more important overnight, almost like that it felt and seemed, and how he has been relegated into some sort of library geek or something. Still, it _was_ Waylon so he could stomach it a bit. If it was someone else he would have probably blow their nads off. And, to him, at present, any work was work even reviewing the files and literature of Mount Massive. One question did bother him a bit when Swanson asked about David Annapurna. He knew that name well enough because that was one of the guys Trager sent personally to Morphogenic hell. Why would they be bothered by him? Is this a question to do with Trager or Annapurna himself or _both_ of them? Either way that question was not well received as in well, he made a subtle sign of curiosity to which Swanson laughed a little and said that they want to round up loose ends as much as possible. That Annapurna had been trouble and that she didn’t like how an orderly thought getting Red Bull wings (all puns intended) would be a cool way to try to bring down the corporation which paid his salary. Jeremy slowly made a small noise to adhere to that comment as appropriate. Though both Swanson and he knew that curiosity might linger. Though, in all honesty, she did ask a bit more questions about Frank Maneira and Father Martin. Jeremy didn’t know any of them well enough and had not even given the time of day to do that. It would never be in his schedule. And Jeremy knew that Swanson now knew that he only know some specifics about Annapurna because of Trager. It was no secret that he was good enough friends with Trager and that they exchanged information. There was nothing really suspicious about that. One question afterwards was jarring: “Jeremy, I can call you that right? Did you feel unabatedly sad that Richard Trager was subjected to the Morphogenic engine, both at first by himself and then via company orders?”

That was a strange question. Jeremy wasn’t really a ‘feelings’ kind of person. Didn’t know how to assess them all the time. But he tried to be honest, seeing how it sometimes helped Waylon get around, “I was a bit disappointed that he couldn’t really keep things in top notch as I thought he could. Maybe, I overestimated his abilities thus I was a bit disappointed in myself for not also looking into him as much as I should have. In the end it was a bit tragic.”

“Tragic?” Ariel Swanson measured and tasted the word in her mouth.

“Yes, because Richard Trager was a good executive at Mount Massive. The man followed protocols, principles of the company and did pretty much things according to the rule-book with attentive care. And as Murkoff prized one’s own ingenuity to those structures Trager also brought in his own line of assessing and maintaining things that pretty much helped the corporation and the asylum. It’s pretty stupid that some nobody orderly and some lunatic’s testimony made him a permanent resident at the Variant program.” Blaire almost snapped this; he knew he shouldn’t have but he had been a complete loyalist to Murkoff too so he couldn’t understand why Trager was not trusted more when their behaviour patterns were so identical in these occasions.  

“It’s nice to some colour on those cheeks.” Swanson looked happy, as though she had wanted a bit of a rise from him, “Your heath also should be emotionally good. You can’t be totally desensitised at the moment. Gotta know when to feel you know.”

“You sound just like some sentimental mommy woman.” Jeremy shouldn’t have said that either. But to know that he was being talked to like this annoyed him.

“That is so sexist.” Swanson smiled, “Deliciously so.” Then with a guffaw and hiding her mouth with her hand, “You should be thankful to mommies and daddies especially mommies. I have a feeling that if your mommy was not so fond of your bullshits and roughhousing you wouldn’t be Jeremy Blaire at the moment now would you?”

Jeremy thought about his mother’s fancies at him, how she loved him, so much so that his siblings, well his younger brother was a nature photographer and his older sister was now married to a tycoon twice her age, yup, his mom liked him a lot, best to be honest and he wasn’t really questioned. None of them were. Except the one that became a photographer. That guy wasn’t really mentioned or invited to family events. “I guess you are right. A woman’s touch or something like that can go a long way.”

“Even a man’s touch.” Swanson seemed to be on a roll, on a pretty good psychological setting, “You know I like men like Miles Upshur and Waylon Park they have some good place in the universe too I reckon. Though I don’t see Waylon really assuaging you or me of our habits. But I wouldn’t mind getting chastised a bit by a person of his nature and calibre.”

“Waylon Park is an asshole.” Jeremy grumbled though he didn’t really believe it. In his heart he wanted Waylon hear right now telling Swanson to not tax Jeremy and then tell him not to make sexist comments and say things that aren’t really well, prudent, and that his mother has spoiled him too much. And that if he was his daddy he would have spanked him by now. Wow, Jeremy almost had to stifle a laugh and a moan. Because in his head he wanted mind some spanking by Park as long as Park let him spank his fine buttocks too and hear him cry “more” after each hit (though he didn’t plan on being brutal as he didn’t like nowadays Waylon getting hurt). Things surely change he once had tried to kill Waylon by suffocating him with a pipe. Also hit him with the same pipe while breaking the small-range radio. Now he just wanted to do kinky and romantic things with Waylon and also probably end up with him. Waylon really reminded him of humanity. A humanity he wanted to count on. And by God he was so pissed that that fucking journalist Miles Upshur was getting to be so close and dandy with hi. Fucking wanted to strangle Upshur with a pipe.

“Well, he is the feeling kind. And I suppose in our line of work and for the incidents at Mount Massive people like him tend to be assholes.” Swanson lit a cigarette, it was perfumed, and a nurse, he wasn’t sure if he should tell her to stop or not but then with a cast gaze told her politely that he was told that smoking in here was not permitted. She suddenly cupped the man’s face rough making both the nurse and Jeremy surprised and suddenly she smiled and said to him, “What’s your name?” 

The man shivered, “Please ma’am forgive me I was just doing my job…for the patient…”

“What is your name?” She asked again sweetly though her clenching hand on his jaw was more pressurized.

“Cody.” He said almost teary. Ariel blew smoke on his face.

“You are pretty brave coming up to me. Such a nice worker. Tell you what…” Ariel smiled, “I’ll let this slide if you bring me that wastebasket and let me put this down a bit later. Also, make sure that Mr. Blaire is kept happy at all times.”

Cody nodded and ran off to do what he was told. “He reminded me of Park so honest, just a worker, not always knowing who and what their head-ups are up to. Kinda cute.” Then a bit sweetly, “You don’t really hate Waylon do you. You know that sort of man also has his benefits and things to be well you know liked on.”

“Waylon is a bit different.” Jeremy hadn’t meant to let that out, he was always systematically reserved and chose his statements with the most vulpine tact, but he decided it isn’t bad to say something, “I guess I don’t always understand what appeals to a man like him.”

“Sexually or otherwise?” Ariel waited a bit to say this response as Cody came along and he heard it too and looked a bit nervous as she slightly pushed bits of the cigarette stick on to the wastebasket and Cody gracefully, with all manners of respect shown, left.

“I think all the categories conceivable.” Jeremy just bluntly answered, he didn’t care what she insinuated and he knew saying this much was not a danger to anything.

“What would you do if Waylon Park was in front of you right now?” She dragged on her cigarette, smiled with her glossy pinkish-mauve lipstick lips, that Jeremy had to admit was attractive, and then just waited for his answer.

“I would punch him in his face twice. Despite him doing nothing to really do with the outbreak at Mount Massive I just hated what the fuck he was on.” Jeremy curtly answered that too, as though it was his instinctive to do so, then he didn’t add the other instinctive. He didn’t add how he would then slowly grab Waylon, caress his punched face, and say he was sorry and that he really needed him. And Waylon would push him and backhand him a bit too for punching him but then….then Waylon would look at his knuckles and say that was he hurt and is his knuckles okay. And for once Jeremy would do the same for Waylon too caressing his palms and hands as if they were something truly irreplaceable (and they were to all accounts given) and then instead of answering him as Waylon would surely try to ask the question again he would douse his concerns with a small, close-mouthed yet intense kiss then slowly gyrate his lips asking Waylon for an entrance and Waylon too would withheld it a bit for a coy play of his own on Jeremy’s own lips as they sucked on each lips, lips on lip and slightly on jaw and juxtaposed on each cheek and then they would finally open that pleasurable path of tongue and teeth and just go for it. Kissing that made lakes know that water cycles can be more than science with the science. Jeremy knowing his corrosives being mended, honed to a viable humanity, empathy and all of this so easily accessed by his tongue-buds being sucked and savoured by another man he was growing to really respect and be affectionate towards.

There was a slight flush on his face and it was like rhetoric, that branch called Hendiadys which can be elusive wordplay as in, you can make an adjective into a noun and instead of saying I am raging mad you can say you are feeling all the rage and mad which could mean you were raging mad but also there might be more to the madness and rage. And Ariel Swanson knew this and didn’t say a word. Instead she didn’t drop her cigarette and was still smoking it and then just slowly kicked the wastebasket to a corner near the bed. She smiled at Jeremy Blaire and he gave a half-smirk.

“Thank you for your honest answers Mr. Jeremy Blaire. I will definitely tell the consortium that we should be happy to have a reliable executive like you alive amongst us.” Then she smiled with a really nod to appreciation, “You can be sure we will be consulting you for our future efforts to ensure that Project Walrider and all its associated groups can find a feasible conclusion. I hope that our serum works for you. I know it is painful and a bit experimental but I hope you understand that there might be no other way to help you get better soon.”

“Thank you Miss Swanson.” Blaire dutiful smirked and gave his due respects. Something felt as though he passed an exam and he was happy if that were the case. Though, in either case, keeping him alive was important as he is a viable asset for Mount Massive. Though even then he knew he was partly upstaged by Waylon Park and Miles Upshur.

“You can call me Ariel if you like…” She sipped on her cigarette and Blaire thought, what was that black smoke coming along with her whitish tobacco stick? “I’ll see you around Jeremy.”

And that was that. Though after she was gone. He did continue his fantasy of kissing Waylon Park sensuously and attentively. Tilting his mouth and neck and going slow, not his usual style but, it felt good with him to know his lips could be sampled well with the skin of Waylon’s face and neck. Then he would undress Waylon first, taking his musculature and sweet softness of his chest and arms and the deepening firmness of toned legs. And a penis still needing some encouragement. Which he would slowly stroke and lick and hearing Waylon’s fantastic moans would be a cock-on for him at full speed. Jeremy knew he already had pre-cum oozing in the reality of his own dick. He could feel the vibrations of his body as he continued his daydream of kissing slowly the nipples of Park and his sweetly toned abdomen and the navel and hip bones just teasingly close to a now more eager erection. And then he would slowly mount Waylon see his mouth gasp and try to stop his moan with a hand which he wouldn’t allow saying that they should hear each other. He wanted to know what it felt to know a thrashing and aroused Waylon Park. And that would be lovemaking for him because though he wanted to be a bit forceful and edgy with him he didn’t necessarily want to hurt Waylon and he genuinely wanted to be savouring and caressing him. Perhaps, the body was the only way he could understand a man like Waylon Park? That is what Jeremy was thinking because he was using his visceral substantiality of understanding things on a new spatial medium. And then when he is with Waylon he would ask politely and endearingly if he can come inside him and Waylon might nod with his dazed and pleasured face and he would. And he would take all of Waylon’s cum too on his body and slowly trail it near his own dick and as he got out carefully and would lather his penis’s own cum with Waylon’s cum, but before that he would taste the homogenous taste of Waylon Park. He might actually taste like the chocolate-strawberry cake essence. Then he would kiss deeply and slowly Waylon’s mouth, with their eyes both hooded and taste his mouth again. In between mumblings he would say, “I like you a lot…you sweet, insurmountable, ethical bastard…”

Cody came back and asked would Mr. Blaire like to eat anything. Jeremy non-hesitantly asked for strawberries. And Cody immediately set out to get them. As he got them in a ceramic bowl and asked if he needed anything else Jeremy just asked if he was allowed whipped cream in his diet. Cody looked at his charts and said that a little bit wasn’t necessarily disallowed so he brought him that too and so was dismissed. Jeremy sucked on the strawberries and cream and waiting for his orgasms and cum to be muffled and waned by the crispness of ICU sheets. He sucked slowly and circled a bit on the strawberry thinking of Waylon all the time as he looked peacefully out the window. The day seemed a bit cloudy but had nice interspersed rays of rich golden light. It warmed him and he took a nap.

“Mr. Blaire?” Back to the present Sash Ouellet seemed to be looking at him, a bit concerned, “Would you like some tea? I know we have been busy for three to four hours working through these documents. It is pretty taxing.”

“Some tea would be nice yes.” Jeremy massaged the bridge of his nose and forehead and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I will ask for some assorted biscuits. They are from the UK. Mr. Wernicke finds them as a luxury and they actually help to keep you invigorated.” Sasha seemed skilled in using the intra-netted intercoms to know what to ask for,

“Too many sugars is bad for you. Diabetes and all.” Jeremy groaned out as he massaged his heck a bit more, the sides and the back, even a bit near his front.

“Sir, you are recuperating; I think your body needs more food and attention than you are giving it. Frankly, we should call it for the day and I can finish up compiling reports.” Sash Ouellet was a refined technician in etiquette and the translation of hard-work into kinetic energies. It is true that one requires such disciplines in corporate hierarchies but the way she carried was admirable. Blaire realised only the most capable and suited should and would work directly with Wernicke. The man was old and needed all the best attentions. No simple orderly duty was enough. Not to mention as Wernicke was one of the geniuses that instigated the Walrider project and many other systems that were now so valuable, his care and even assessment had to be done by capable eyes, ears and hands. Jeremy wondered if Wernicke had more free will or was he too monitored to a certain degree even before the Mount Massive incident. After all he was now part of the intelligentsia that made the companies in conglomeration with Murkoff feel cutting-edge and feasible. Feel in _control_.

“I don’t mind.” Jeremy said with the air of professionalism and dictum, with a smirk that accompanied that move, “I can crunch out more expositions as long as they are entertaining.”

Ouellet did not really return the smirk. Rather she had a numbed look of someone who had exercised and excised many of her emotions, especially in front of particular people. In a different context Jeremy would not have really cared as people in her station could not be easily sentimental or emotional. They could not afford to let their guards down. But Jeremy knew by then she had more _control_ than him in this situation. A part of him wanted to punch her for it; not for any rage or misogynistic waywardness. It was that he was becoming a bit _rusty_ , a bit _nervous_ , he wasn’t in his natural geographical climate. And frankly he didn’t know how should act and what they were expecting from him. Maybe, they didn’t expect anything much; at less during this time. Which made the situation so much more aggravating as he was doing desk-jockey duties on the clock and being a good enough patient.

“Mr. Blaire…” She sounded softer now, her smile a bit _sinister_ – was that a good word for it? Or, was it rather _cool_? Funny, he knew how to use words nicely enough, charitable words, now he actually felt like Lisa Park when he delivered the news of her husband’s so-called falsified mental profile (he also realised he called Waylon her husband, which he tried refrained from doing because he hated thinking him belonging to someone, when he had so wanted his body next to his, even then). Well, now he knew what Lisa Park was feeling. She probably wanted to kick his face to one end of the galaxy to another. Now that he was in her _position_ , **finally** , the improbable had happened, he couldn’t blame her. Rather she did say less than charitable words to me, I am dumbfounded speechless. All this time Ouellet just smiled. That cool detached really limp, but at the same time electrified smile of purpose, “You should eat more. Drink more. You can’t expect to get better and be of better use and be productive if you are to be like this.”

Finding some of his words, ironically, by God, it was Lisa Park who served as the unlikely but solid inspiration: “I am being as useful as I can be and more seeing my health. I am even offering more than you said I needed.” With a smirk now, asserting some control back, “I think I am always doing my best to help the company. I am an exec, I will always do my best.”

Ouellet’s smile faded a bit. She hadn’t anticipated Jeremy to have such a good comeback but then she smiled again, her control was still pretty much the anchor and ship, “I suppose you are doing the best you can in your health and I must appraise your abilities as nothing short of talent, skill, attentiveness and dedication. When I tell Dr Wernicke of how such a loyal representative we have amongst us I am sure he will take tea and biscuits with you more often than you realise.”

 _So, Wernicke wants to know if I am worth the while for small talk?_ Jeremy looked neutral again and Ouellet handed him a tea with lemon zest which he sipped and tasted with both finesse and thoughts in his head _, What a old-bag Nazi cocksucker_ , “Well, it is nice to know Dr Wernicke thinks of me and my health.”

“I do not wish to burden you more.” Ouellet smiled, this time kindly enough to merit as a form of courtesy and care, “I can type these as soon as I can return. We have managed enough. I will show you some photos later on pertaining to damage assessment in the asylum. I fear because of some of the olden quarters I am not exactly confident in my own assessment in redefining blueprints to mark things such as ‘chaos damage’ or rather ‘previous damage’. We are keeping some of those things in detail as we want to study the after incident behaviour forensically of some of the Variants. Not all of them were totally incompetent and we are actually happy to see that some had made good, shall I say, progress, due to the outbreak.”

“A lot of good people died too.” For some odd reason Jeremy suddenly said this, it was uncharacteristic for him, to himself, and he looked a bit oddly at his own speech after he said it, but then seeing no re-track, he continued, “I understand the valuableness of the Variants but some of those personnel weren’t so bad either. I think they were pretty decent or good assets in their own right.” Waylon, are you rubbing off on me.

Ouellet looked a bit puzzled too, her mouth slightly open, then she smiled, “Yes, Waylon Park being one of the best non-Variant assets to be of interest for retrieval.” Then she added, “But you know Mr. Blaire.” She poured a cup herself and looked into the fire of the fireplace. They had been seated in an office room with a few shelves and it also had a nicely, well stitched very nice cotton cot actually bed. The room was specifically for Jeremy’s work and relaxation. On one side there were Jeremy’s crutches that he still needed to use time to time to walk about and near to the fireplace was a cane with a silver-crested hawk’s emblem because when he didn’t need to use the crutches Jeremy could look debonair even with his impairments and healings, “In our line of business the diseases are more interesting than the cures and the controls for them.” She sipped her tea with small licks as though savouring each lemony sample, “Waylon Park is a welcome anomaly but an anomaly nevertheless in the wide distributions. Of course, there are many more like him and his quadrant does also follow Mr Miles Upshur.” She smiled a bit more warmly now though the sentences were pretty ruddy, cold and inhumane, “Pharmaceuticals to vaccinations to crop processing genetics, we are more interested in the phenomena of the absurd and deranged. We are not at really interested in the variable of the healthy anymore. Or, rather we sometimes skim it. Being interested in disease is like being in love with that hard to get itch. It’s stimulating and fascinating.” And then she suddenly swallowed the hot tea and Jeremy looked flabbergasted or rather uninitiated to Ouellet’s weird high to low, low to high, thermodynamic shockwaves, “In the end we can only progress if we study and utilise diseases because health is well health. The personnel who died were boring compared to the Variants. That is why no one was keeping them in glass cages asking their blood and tissue autographs.” With that unsettling imagery she put the cup down, “The honeycombs matter not the bees don’t you agree?” She started to compile her reports.

“It depends which is which and if the chicken is more important than the egg or the egg itself…I don’t think we can make an ultimatum when we are ourselves neither honey nor bee.” Jeremy surprised himself with that answer too. But when he thought of Trager and then Waylon he couldn’t stop himself. A part of him, internally, mourned Trager. But what really, really bothered him stung him so to speak, was also Waylon’s undecided faith or rather unknown one to him. The way these people were he was actually a bit afraid for him. He didn’t know what they would do to him. In the past he would care light or not at all. But now — now when he surveyed it he was starting to feel slightly for Waylon Park and did not know how to express it or not express it. To be hearing that Waylon was an interesting anomaly did not suit nicely with him because he didn’t look Waylon as a contract 8208 or something like a Berkeley brat anymore. When Waylon survived he had wanted to kill him but he was also fucking **impressed**. He was also impressed that even after fucking him up Waylon had, though with some hesitation, had thought on helping him out.

The fucking irony was that, at present, Waylon seemed like a safer person than all of these Murkoff people. Though he did like working for them. He didn’t know how else he could make sense of himself or be useful.

“You are right I guess.” Ouellet had scanned his words, there was a slight disdain, but it went away and she just well walked on out only to be greeted at the door by Darian with Slicestorm, “Good evening Mr Leitner.” She showed him a nod of authority and even his Walrider and just stepped out as Darian just smiled at her.

After she left he deftly closed the door and Jeremy looked a bit panicked, _What the fuck –_

He couldn’t finish his sentence as Slice got him pinned down a bit dropping his tea and clasped his mouth. Darian sauntered briskly towards him and then without even further notice unzipped Jeremy’s pants and took a long lick of his penis. Jeremy eased a bit but was wondering what the fuss was…and then he slowly removed Habrok’s talons, “Listen Darian what gives…”

“You are tired right?” Darian gave a few expert licks to his cock and seems to be touching his own pants, as if touching his own cock, “Wanna have a breather?”

“I thought I already was…” Jeremy looked at Slice licking at his discarded tea then take the pipping kettle and douse his mouth with most of the tea. He had to shift a bit because the tea was falling everywhere and it fell a bit on Darian’s hand earning a kick from him to which Slice put the kettle down and gave a soft belch.

“A blowjob beats earl grey huh?” Darian started sucking vigorously. By this time Slice had started tearing through Jeremy’s shirt with actual shreds and tatters adding to the linen-cotton apparel.

“That is contestable – hey you!” Jeremy screamed at the Walrider, “Fuck don’t ruin my shirt!” To which Slice just sneered and then without warning stuck his black viscous tongue matter right into Jeremy’s mouth. Jeremy muffled and attempted to get off the Walrider’s hard and eager grip. Darian kept on sucking him to full erection. Whilst Slice slowly used his talons, now almost a bit softer in their appearance, circling Jeremy’s taut nipples and heaving chest. The Walrider pressed a bit more forcefully in some places, with some elegant pressure, making Jeremy’s skin blush and his breathing hitch. That beast knew what arousal was. And this made Jeremy unsure of what the hell bargain he was getting himself into. Yet he moaned a bit feeling his penis thriving and his chest and stomach being flirtatiously teased by a cool, liquid creature. If one even had asked him pissed-drunk at his frat house what his weirdest sexcapades would be like in fantasy he had a hard time conjuring this reality.

“Fuck, you are such a big boy….” Darian swallowed so hard-pressed, then flexed his tongue slowly, then got out, then nimbly and gently pushed his mouth again, intimately playing out muscles during sex making Jeremy almost ooze in pre-cum thinking on the tractable sexuality of this person and his knowledge of fellatios and how to exact them to the model perfection, given contexts and heightening of senses, “How can tea and cookies make you so happy when my mouth can…” A slow bite near his shaft and then near his balls, Jeremy cried out, breathlessly, he had been French kissing pretty much a monster and was enjoying it a bit, he actually looked flustered and embarrassed, and Slicestorm looked happy as he spent no time in shoving his tongue again knowing each arc and tooth and molar and pushed up and down against Jeremy’s own tongue making Jeremy feel absorbed by the fluid and flesh of his own body and this vulpine mouth of the Walrider, “Oh Blaire, you are  gonna be stern right, not a quick comer right,  yup no limp-dick on you…” And Blaire feels his pants tear too, from behind as Slice’s hand gave gash-like (sinewy tough) lashing movements on his buttocks. It wasn’t spanking, nor was it squeezing, it was the intensity of feeling something both, like long lines on his ass and Jeremy tried to stop yelling but he couldn’t and before long his pre-cum dangled more making Darian lick and suck more. “Such a pretty hard-working cock…so yummy…”

Darian then undressed slowly…he actually took some pre-cum of Jeremy’s cock and rubbed it on his own and then teased his own nipple with it: “I am hungry….I bet you are you huh Jer…”

“I…what is happen…happening…” Jeremy could only mutter as he felt the Walrider now lick his butt-cheeks with its cool, inhuman tongue that made him shiver and he was sure his backside was red if not marked.

“We gonna fuck, do the dirty…I want you Jeremy…” Darian smiled so wide, like some disfigured mouth, but it didn’t feel fearful rather Jeremy knew some things were going to happen now he might regret later. Darian put Jeremy’s hand on his penis. Jeremy saw its size and realised it may be an inch or two bigger than his own which would have been construed laughable as Darian was a bit shorter and slenderer than him. “Look at my little one…isn’t he pretty?”

Jeremy saw the throbbing penis and saw its attention and had to dazedly smirk, “It’s a nice one.”

“Know it better.” Darian dared and picketed the distance between them. By this time Jeremy didn’t feel like protesting because he was a bit pissed at how things were going. A little pick-up didn’t hurt right? He stroked Darian’s penis and twisted it softly left and right with a smile and saw happily the latter close his eyes in acceptance of his ministrations. Then he slowly looked at the bobbing head and flicked his tongue twice and thrice then sucked on it slow with a moan, heated mouth, by this time he also felt Darian’s hand push and pull on his dick. With the Walrider’s tongue, icy-slight and with hints of warmth ooze on his penis, making him jolt cries in between sucking Darian’s penis. He managed a little-head tease with some casual licks then just gave a few sucks on the sides before roughly swallowing the younger man’s member in one whole swoop. Making Darian cry out and push on Jeremey’s dick harder. Then suddenly Darian grabbed Jeremy’s head and started thrusting in and out, fluidly, without much of a juncture or a languid step and Jeremy grabbed Darian’s hips surprised but not really struggling rather smirking as he took the slick penis into his mouth (he could bit and bled the fucker anytime he wanted or punched his nads). Soon Jeremy felt his mouth fill with hot white sperm and he took came with his Jetstream and fuck he and Darian screamed.

Slicestorm was sucking on Jeremy’s seamen when Darian pushed him away and started taking in his seamen showing his mouth and tongue rather messily as he lapped and moaned with Jeremy partly swallowing and partly wiping the sperm in his own mouth. But he was gasping for breath. Slowly he became aware that Slicestorm had picked him up and by now his clothes were torn and long dropped on the floor. Jeremy breathed hard as Darian then kissed his naval and balls sucking on each sweetly before winking… “I wanna know you better baby…you fucking hot bastard…”

Before Jeremy could say something he felt Darian’s dick near his ass and he realised what was happening, “Wait…we haven’t really…” Jeremy moved a bit but Slice smiled.

Darian kissed him, “Don’t worry we can take turns.” To which Jeremy seemed to relax. As Darian entered him and started rocking to and fro making both of them scream. Jeremy felt the Walrider grab his legs and open them wide as give him one hell of a hand job as its host fucking fucked him and was strenuously fucked by his ass’s smoothness. Of course, the first few jerks was foreign and pretty crucially painful but then Jeremy, who had fooled around like this in the past, got their rhythm in check. He moaned in honest pleasure with Darian who yelled as though his entire being was feeling each jolt. Even the Walrider screamed a bit of his static as if he too could feel the sweet dabbling of Jeremy’s prostrate. Jeremy closed his eyes and on instinct kissed Slicestorm, long and hard and then kissed longingly at Darian. All three of them were lost to this pleasure.

Jeremy moved his hips a bit side by side feeling the apex of another climax on the wind. Screaming he shot all his load on Darian’s lower abdomen and part of it was swallowed his Walrider. Without warning Darian half-released his spunk in Jeremy and let the other half drip. Then he made it drip on Jeremy’s thigh.

Jeremy was too aroused and that is when he realised it was not over. Not by a long shot. He grabbed Darian with his furious passions spilling all over in his bloodstream and started kissing and biting Darian who eagerly responded with his tongue and teeth also biting and kissing. With the third timing of erection Jeremy wasted no time in entering Darian and thrusting long and wide, grunting and moaning as he felt Darian’s ass compliment his cock. Darian moaned along with Jeremy encouraging him with full-fledged excitement, “Faster! Harder! You exec bastard!” Jeremy smiled with a pretty lunatic abandon. It seemed all his stress and accumulated frustration was being abated by the fuck.

What he hadn’t really understood was that the Walrider protruded something akin to a penis and slowly but expertly entered him too. Double penetration took a whole new meaning by that act alone. For a moment Jeremy was so shocked he stopped his pacing in slight, worried about what was going on and if he was actually experiencing what he was experiencing because there was small crackle of pain that reminded him of the Mount Massive’s Walrider trying to rip him from the inside. His pleasure was swiftly turning to panic as he wrestled a bit as his mouth at the moment was seared and sealed by a kiss that rivalled a vice from Darian. Darian noticed his proceedings to lose some of its gusto and almost annoyed barked: “Stop thinking XY6 and Habrok are the same okay! Quiet your jerking around and fuck around!”

But there was a pain inside, if not raw and corroding, it was itching and bubbling to a point of total discomfort. Jeremy felt as though something like a transistor radio was jumping in him as using that frequency would tear him as though it hated the crystalline structure of flesh. Jeremy’s anxieties and fears were obviously hurting his performance and it made Darian bit his lip hard eliciting a pain from Jeremy as he saw a slight cut, not bleeding, but smarting enough to make him glare at the younger man. “Fine.” Darian smiled with a wide eyed frenzy, “Training wheels then.” Happily, though to the complete dissatisfaction of Habrok, he motioned him to slap. Habrok could not stop immediately as he was too full of his own pleasures so he swaddled one or two pushing before being pulled and punched on the face by Darian which made him whimper and then moaning, with utter sadness, stop. “Now then Habrok, follow my hips, see how I ride him…take your energy patterns from me. Let Jer enjoy this to the fullest too. After all, “ licking his face with salivated abandon making Jeremy close his eyes to the lathering licentiousness of it, “I have a feeling we will be regular fuckbuddies or fuck-bodies whatever you wanna call it no? I can taste future sex already in my groin, ass and tongue and it make me wanna smear you in cock-juice!”

Jeremy didn’t know who the last statement was for him, him or Slicestorm or both of them. Yet soon the rhythm matched as both started slow but hard and kept in sync and Jeremy found both his cock and backside filled with a sort of haziness he did not understand but knew how to feel viscerally and soon some languid thrusts, twisting sideways and highways, both began their velocities again making after a moment or two Jeremy also get into it and thrust again with all accelerative force of a canon. They all screamed and moaned again and Slice screeched and scrawled on the table as though its entire being was being engulfed by the sheer whiteness of the intercourse. The threesome persisted with on a whole 40 minutes scale: the tempos increased and waned but bounced and gyrated and the kissing nibbling and the love-bites were in total abundance. At one point Jeremy was aware that his skin was emitting gooseflesh as the alien Walrider tongue and incisors were also sucking and biting in its erotic happiness and that it was earnestly copying but also initiating a sense of lust with him. Jeremy never thought he would be having sex like this. And a part of him just didn’t want to think anything just enjoy this ride. Whatever fucking carnivalesque ride it was — with his heated screams, moans, grunts and cries he wondered who outside, By God would be hearing all three of them like this. There was a need to feel shame as he was not an exhibitionist but something told him that when Darian was around no one really dared go near the rooms he was intimate in. With that solace and last cogent thought he bellowed in complete arousal and licked the face of Slice as sensuously one could to a nanomachines daemon. The creature happily licked him back, nuzzled his neck and face with Jeremy’s and soon Jeremy opened his mouth to only be joined with the most forceful kiss with Darian.

While they were entering their closeness Jeremy suddenly felt he was with Waylon and for a moment, even longer, he entertained that though, jostled it in his libido, heart and head and allowed it to consume him despite hearing Darian screaming: “I am coming, Oh yes, I am fucking coming!” And his Walrider howling as though it was almost reaching a climax.

Under his breath, barely audible, almost part of the breathing ecstasy of itself… Jeremy sighed, “Waylon…” but then scrawled into a cry that rattled his bones and maybe even the static of Habrok and the systems of Darina, “Damn! I fucking coming! OHHHH! FUCK YES! YES! YES! YESSSSS!”

And with that he came inside Darian and but felt part of his spurts on Slice. Then he felt something light-greyish also mingle with him and realised that this Walrider did something _close_ to _coming **inside**_ of him. Eyes were wideshot and he looked apparently nervous but Darian stroked his face, “Don’t worry, it’s not lethal and it dissolves faster than our own. Without a trace. It’s only nanomachines.”  

Jeremy was exhausted beyond anything; the tiredness was catching up to him, and he wondered what the fuck this was, a health assessment? And he just smiled but groaned too as pressed his face with the paler skinned man’s and looked hazy though Darian looked less tired but also more amorous. Suddenly, he stuffed a biscuit in Jeremy’s mouth, “You can eat a bit now if you want.”

Jeremy nibbled a bit and then fell flat asleep near Jeremy’s face. Slicestorm licked his back gently and fondly while Darian stroked his hair and ate a biscuit, “You know I can tell Waylon Park that the performance is A grade for all the commitment…such tantalising desserts…how can one resist…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that is a long lemon thing I have ever wrote. I am not an expert so don't take my words as facts and practise safe sex if you are sexually active as my fic is fiction so really doesn't always bothers with details on that much all the time. I am being responsible as much I can be =) 
> 
> Well comment below so I can knowz what I didz rightz and wrongz hehehe


	16. Cross-Sectional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic is practically writing itself and the funny part is the end of this chapter. I swear it was like the idea was so sudden I was like okay let's go with it. And I hope you guys enjoy it XD I am like too surprised but I thought why not? Also one portion of this chapter I just went ahead and did telling and not any dialogues thought it would seem like "everyday" sort of vibe mixing with what the characters were feeling living together and it would simplify otherwise bulk content. At least for me. If you guys hate it my sincerest apologies. 11.5k update so I hope you guys enjoy.

 

**Cross-Sectional**

 

The night was better now. Obviously, Waylon and Miles were no longer fighting and that made them happy. They didn’t know that they were at loggerheads or quarrelling because weren’t that supposed to be more intense, verbally jarring and well completely physical unbearable? Well, from Waylon’s experience he knew that not all fights or disagreements were entirely passive-aggressive or aggressive or anything. They had their frequencies. Miles knew this too though he was less initiated as in his life he hardly had substantial relationships. Well, he had had fights with Yesfir — on silly things like why should they paint the walls to a study pastel and not just a more emanating brick red or maybe another red to the time when Yesfir almost slapped him saying he was a jerk that he didn’t want to be a couple or introduce her as his girlfriend when he was pretty much _his_ girlfriend and he _her_ boyfriend — it was something like this that made Miles realise how immature he was. Being in a relationship and not fully cognizant on it. Made him think what a fucking idiot he was to know the grappling of journalism but could not decode the documents of his own life. So when Yesfir left him one night saying that in a poetic way that the night need bodies and she rather not give hers to him at the moment even for an embrace. That is when he knew he fucked up. He didn’t tell this to Yesfir or anyone. But he cried a lot when she left and held her pillow, on her side of the bed thinking why isn’t he running after her. Well, then he got it — it’s because he seriously wasn’t mature enough to know what to do when he got her back. Though that was some years ago it still hurt him and well, now he was a different person. And perhaps that is why he knew he had to act quicker with Waylon. Though he still doubted his emotional growth and tact, even empathising attributes in any close-knit intimate situations. He still thought that Waylon deserved better. He didn’t want to hurt Waylon especially how he hurt Yesfir because it was really a dick move and he is learning from it. And wants to know how to treat the situation well enough, right enough, and be straightforward about it as much as he possibly could.

 _Though I do think Waylon does **deserve** better than me, I mean… _ Miles thought _, That guy is pretty smart, hell, I think he is cerebral genius or something…but he is also sweet and humble… a bit head above the clouds…a  bit naïve at times…But, I think his kind of simplicity and complexity in a  person is much needed in the world…the universe needs people like him. I need a person like him too. I need a person like him to know me when I am down or up. Sometimes, a person like that just makes your soul feel wild, honed but also warm and safe. It makes you feel whole. I did not like staying away from Waylon…he…he keeps me happy enough. I am happy to know that in this shit-storm I actually got drafted with a person like him. I can’t think of no other person who would be able to penetrate and process the situation like him. Perchance there could be others but I can’t seem to think of them and Waylon being here means he was **meant** to be here with **me** , and me **him** …I don’t know much about fate but I have faith that we can stick it out together…and yeah The Twins, I don’t know exactly how this situation translates to them. They said they wanna know more about the world but the world is not only about the Walrider and all this Murkoff crap, despite how Murkoff wished it was only them and them alone those narcissistic fucks, and after a while I wouldn’t mind them leaving if it means they find a place that they can belong or do something…I don’t think the same can be said for…well Gluskin…I mean…he is a serial killer and I don’t know how he views the world now.  I have every right to fear for his safety as that guy is somewhat smitten with his so called ‘Waylon darling’ – kinda think of it I never asked Waylon how he tolerates that gesture. I mean after everything. I think Waylon is trying not to think about it after all it could be added baggage. _

_“Well, when you think about it, you should be resting yourself. Yours and mine health is somewhat tied at times. Don’t want you feel mentally frustrated and then also get me mentally frustrated. Besides, maybe Waylon has let the matter drop on the whole ‘Waylon darling’ thing — I mean it’s not so bad being called that as long as you can stomach it, literally, I mean that guy isn’t stabbing him.”_

“How much did you hear?” Miles looked a bit annoyed at the swirling mass that manifested itself towards into the musculature of a known entity.

_“Not much, I am not gonna be that intrusive and when you are calm you are able to mask many of your personal thoughts. I think it’s okay to have some natural boundaries. I wouldn’t want you casually leafing over what I always think too. We are well, not always our thoughts, and we prefer to forget that as easily.”_

“That’s a mature assessment.”  Miles nodded towards his changeling or whatever it could be called — he was erasing the concept of parasite or anything negative. It was undeniably true that when he was separated from Waylon that the Walrider, despite also in error, supported him and worked as an externalised council and conscience. To deny him this place, his merit, even after his sincere dedications and apology would be fallible and a superseded example of bad faith.

 _“True…true…”_  The Walrider looked happy; at least glad that they concurred. Their symmetry was one of strangeness. There was no master or slave as _both_ oscillated between master and slave positions. None seemed the wiser, one apt to the appetites that should be denigrated from the flesh yet was a not a being of flesh. It was difficult to know of the flesh but never be of the flesh like a noise that knew it was of the aural spatiality yet could not conjugate or congregate as an aural thing in itself. Yet, as he was “noise” or a being that was of a way “flesh” he yearned as flesh did. Either base bad or good or whatever.  And he hungered now knowledge of interactions and sought out also the verbal, the bodily, the kinetic, the ballistic forces — and yes he wanted to know static in the way humans experience it as bursts of red dots symmetrically arranged when the eyes are under darkness (he seen Billy experience this and it was pretty fantastic). There was also the viscera of other things he did not know. The ability to auto-salivate and not feel gluttonous and guilty about it. But he knew as he was not fully flesh he may have other functions and uses though…he knew that despite his malleability in certain cases the elasticity of certain trajectories were not known to him but flesh knew. When he was slashing the vessels or breaking bones he sometime marvelled at the sweet-asymmetrical ways of adjoining and also structure so voluptuously definite. Like granite and moss overlapping and licking out terrains. Yes, he felt he was an ode to flesh for as a shadow he was both caricature and essence and a Creator had put him there to know and be known as such. _“We rest now, no…this good…I feel good…”_

Miles noted the childishness of tongue coming back. And he inadvertently realised that despite some mature observances the Walrider, his Wallie, was still a nascent creature manifested and so drifted between Id and Super ego remnants and could not really develop a stability of communication and communion with himself. Yet he smiled because Wallie was not at all a horrible creature essentially and that made sense. Rather as he was a projection or something somewhat as such he could not always be tacitly stated as a perpetrator because he was neither complete puppet nor completely autonomous. Ironically, Miles realised becoming a host has also made him slightly not fully share this ambivalent positioning. Though it was not to the extent as Wallie. Thus that meant he would be still found inexcusable as the host of many actions that Wallie would deem as a probable innocent. God that is too much responsibility, like some Siamese twin or something… Miles groaned and rubbed his head.

He definitely was tired.

* * *

 

Waylon was now back in his room. And he looked at the pictures on the wall and felt his nose was pretty much a distilled perfume of sorts; or rather the outer cartilage of it that brushed against Miles and he felt a sense of rush to his brain and body that made him stifle a moan and press his legs. It was a saturated feeling of both tenderness and huskiness, a nomenclature of things designed to make him feel each piece of him yet not marginalised; it was like a burst a small implosion that also morphed back into itself; a tenacity and wavering drop of many atoms in conjunction. A thrill etched his limbs, nuzzled his stomach and quivered on his guts, like tissues all synthesised for arousal and he quacked in almost silent anger at the membranous shaft of his that is now attentive and expressive; from a state of coolness it had become half-heated. It was like a radiator or a lava-sample waiting to feel again the molecules of touch and the sensitives of hands and breathing. How an embrace made a fever that could combat the common cold or even adrenalize so much the body and spirit that wounds near the head are oft forgotten and borne as though they were mere scratches of skin waiting to be peeled any other way. It was the sweat that made him realise that despite the ambient coolness his body was in need of a release that was more than 98.6° F could contain…that was like 37°C and 37 was a prime number. How funny that the human body temperature was a prime number equivalent, and that reaching out of that prime meant fever and a delicious math to relieve fever was…dammit, edging his knees and bucking his hips he let out almost a moan that trebled his atmosphere. His tongue reading the coils of lust and the grains of affection…tantalising pre-cum mores-coding need and want into a salient code…needing someone or coveting someone was such a beautiful, covetable exercise for the body…it ruptured as softly as quantum bubbles in the spheres of some consciousness that contained and transcended the erotic…

The sweat made it apparent what he craved…maybe a kiss…a tongue in cheek, literally, inside his mouth there was a feeling of the cheek right? Dammit, what’s happening to me…why am I…Miles…it just felt…feeling his hands near his head, the sweet hands near his hair and slowly caressing his bruise…he now gave a long moan…and without realising it felt a flood of blood reach his cock that surged and savoured in more ardent flexing. It resonated as am echo his lust his needs and soon the watery contents turned thicker even though he had given no separate pulls. And with another sign he had a partial orgasm, after a moment an overriding ejaculation accompanied a full-fledged release making him cry out a bit and use his mouth to muffle his writhing and collapsing onto his bed as he arched and shook as a tree dancing with a gale. His skeletal spine coddled by the sensuousness of something both his cortex and glands knew and into the abyss and the mounds of it he finally allowed one small yell that could be a mixture between a yelp and sigh. As his body knew this action. Accepted the after-wave of longing and lust with fondness he slowly breathed in and out as though in those moments his lungs had been long lost balloons finally aerated again into existence. And slowly he knew he had to sleep…sleep in a moist taste of both sweet exhaustion and actual exhaustion from stress and all the bio-chemicals needed to fix things and fix himself. With the strength needed to nestle himself by pulling his sheets Waylon knew he was approaching sleep easily.

He definitely was tired.

 

* * *

 

 

It had been a working week’s length in the lodge. Rather the days were spent in such plainness, simplicity and the sagacity of everydayness that it was pretty welcomed. Nothing refreshes the chaos of the heart than the playful chaos and strings of a life measured in equilibrium and an appetite for eating the creature comforts alongside small passions. The days that Miles and Waylon had not talked had been spent in reading for Waylon to help keep his concentration and to truly assess how hurt he was. Thank God it was a deep gash but none debilitating to his mental functions. The reading made him slightly tired but communicating with The Twins and Eddie made him ascertain and certain that his wounds were not severe and they may leave no mark if still properly treated. Miles was still wearisome as he wanted to be useful for Waylon’s recovery. He did, however, have to acquiesce that maybe his sewing stitches skill was not up to par compared to Eddie’s though his bandaging was pretty good and at times allowing a softness that Eddie lacked as he was used to being more tactile with clothes and fabrics required a pace not always there with bandaging.

Yet now by the fifth day Miles and Waylon were back to talking and communicating. The Twins were actually overjoyed by this for they felt that their _household_ needed the two to be at their best. The Twins did not easily feel Eddie was part of them. It was true this had a lot of things to do with him being a killer with many psychological traumas and issues but it was also his sudden invasion of their lodge. Compounded with that was that Eddie was a strange one in the asylum who seemed to be have been a complacent misanthrope with hardly any interest in anyone but expressed desires of a fine woman and family. This also coupled with certain disagreements he had with Billie that made many prisoners and inmates openly dislike Eddie Gluskin. Billie was a popular person amongst the patients so was Father Martin and Eddie’s encounters with both had been less than satisfactory. It was common knowledge that Eddie hungered the attention that Billy possessed; that they had a partial fallout when Billy sensed the seething tensions gritted on the teeth of his former companion at cards. They tolerated each other for their ecosystem was pinned of the magnetic polarities of both their personalities. Billy was the affable one and Eddie the distant one and they both constructed a skyline parameter where the others pretty much near of far or in the middle.

With Father Martin the act had been of artistic sensibilities and a disapproval in aesthetics. Father Martin believed that a man of Eddie’s stature should stay celibate and help furnish places like churches and not go after glamorous women, not that Eddie was wholly promiscuous sort but he was the sort who loved the idea of hearth and family so to him the monk-like existences of celibacies and staying vigils and all that was an affront to his tastes. Not to mention Father Martin did make comments that as there was no women around who should Eddie dress rather than himself and the vocation block should could be properly used to dress many of the other inmates. Father Martin’s ideas weren’t bad but they seemed rather judgmental to Eddie and they made him feel like he was under a vice grip of criticism that he didn’t like. So, naturally, one fine day he poured red paint on Father Martin and told him now that he was baptised in his own ideas and should keep his mouth to himself where it belonged. What transpired next was called the “Carrie” moment as Father Martin in rage flew himself at Eddie Gluskin and they both tussled to the ground with doctors and other patients obviously frightened, while some jeering and cheering, soon they were separated and Eddie was put in isolation as Martin when to the chapel to cry his tears in exhaustion and sleep. Before being carried away to his padded cell as Martin could become hysterical and do loads of damage if not taken seriously as much as he wished to be.

So, both incidences were a sort of a paragraph written on Eddie Gluskin — he could not get along well with the significant people or rather he could not know how to circumnavigate them in a manner suitable for the system’s reliance on a pattern of coexistence. People knew not what time or hour they would leave or rather if departure was even a schedule in their lives anymore except the one which calls itself death so it was highly insensitive to whirl around as cops and robbers when there were already too many authorities to be playing on that part. And this was noted by The Twins who had a healthy friendship with both Billy and Father Martin and mostly many people in the asylum. They did not get incited or excited easily which the doctors noted with suspicion, rightly so, because their impulses were being honed by subtle shifts and they could without warning become violent or hyper-vigilant. However, now they have entered a peaceable form of life with Waylon and Miles. They were happy to treat them as friends and they knew it would be troublesome later one. They are already aware that they might leave them or they leave the two in some point. They wouldn’t mind helping Waylon and Miles but they didn’t know what or how things would happen. Yet this present was enjoyable. The only annoyance was the bad seed Eddie Gluskin.  

The Twins intrinsically, intricately, impassibly felt that he wasn’t one to get along. And at this moment it was a half-truth, not absolutist but obviously there. Eddie easily bared fangs at Miles and at them he gave this mightier-than-thou attitude that obviously made Tom feel like punching him (Tim eased him) and Tim feel like bitch-slapping across the face. The only consistently and nice behaviour Eddie displayed was to Waylon Park. And this was understandable as Waylon, even to the Twins, was a genuine human being. Not that Miles was any lesser. Just Miles had an edgier flare but he was nice too. However, Gluskin had his biases. Though The Twins knew if things came to be sour they would easily beat the crap of Gluskin is need be.

Miles and Eddie at this point had _not_ had _one_ decent conversation.

Tim had noted that the friction between them may always or at least for the most part stay a bit strong. Unless they can see things with a common enough angle. Tim thought that, as The Twins both saw Eddie before, Miles had all the reason to feel that Eddie was a nuisance. Miles seem to know that Eddie was a killer or something dangerous. The eyes that narrowed felt so. And that Eddie was a bit of a cock with his smirks, his jaunts and his almost condescending manner of looking at them all except Waylon. After all, despite the Twins liking Waylon they and Miles did not appreciate being lumped as lower beings next to him. Tom obviously felt this was pretty awful hypocrisy concerning that Eddie was a Variant and he had more in common with them than with Miles or Waylon.

The day started out with Waylon telling quietly to Miles and his Walrider if he could rest and sleep in. Poor Waylon had a slight fever. He coughed a bit so Miles earnestly went to brew him some chamomile tea. Eddie seeing this seethed but went to ask Waylon in his room if he would anything else and that he would personally make all his meals for him if he need be. Waylon told that Eddie needed rest too. There was a moment that Waylon felt the need to tell Eddie to slow down. That he had noticed something. When Eddie asked of it Waylon asked if he had cracked ribs or something from the time at the asylum. Eddie was a bit flustered and Waylon explained at first he didn’t notice and then at times when he ran away from him and hid him noticed and then now he had forgotten but newly noticed. Eddie breathed too heavily. Like a bit too heavily for normal. So, Waylon concluded that either the Morphogenic engine had scarred his lungs or worse. Or, his ribs at places were cracked. Or it could be a mix of both. Waylon smiled and said Eddie may able to take the pain but it wouldn’t do good to make his body go through so much.

Eddie confessed some of his ribs were cracked _but_ they were healing. His abdominal pain was more searing than his ribs though. And yeah, due to the engine he had too much cough and his lungs at times swayed way too much. But he was no doctor so he didn’t know if it meant some scarring that needed some time to heal. Waylon said that Eddie needed to eat and rest too.

Miles bought the tea for Waylon and as Waylon drank the hot steamy goodness Miles asked Waylon what would he like to eat?

The Twins interrupted that they could make a noodle, eggy broth mixed with some crunchy veggies as soups help fever. They could add chicken. Then they meticulously added that the roast beef with smashed potatoes with make good sandwiches and a bit of rice mixed with the mashed potatoes would be good lunch. They seem to have seen this sort of food being had by execs and personnel at the asylum and had learned a bit how to make it. Miles was happy that they took kitchen duty a bit seriously when their time came. Miles would not have known what to cook and perfectly honest he didn’t think he had the patience to cook that day.

Nothing was all perfection. The soup’s egg was a bit too yolky and the tomatoes not too finely squeezed and cut. Lunch also had same problems with sandwiches not having too much in between but stuffed with too much beef and the potatoes were less smashed but all of them ate well enough. After that Waylon went to sleep and all of them decided not to disturb (Wallie was happy that the foods tasted fresh and good). Waylon had his food with Wallie on coming in and checking because they opened the window slightly and thought that Waylon should recuperate without much overcrowding. Downstairs there was some conversation between The Twins and Miles as Eddie just ate and looked at them. Miles at some times got animated and described that they were assholes to him when he was trying to reach the showers. They confessed they knew that and that they were sorry. But they also were impressed that Miles quickly got out and shimmied out the window. And how dangerous that place was because they noticed Walker and left not wanting to have a long battle with that dude for it would been have been hectic and time consuming. Yet, they were also impressed how he escaped Walker too. That they were being a bit cocky and seeing how he handled stress. Which Miles, even to the surprise to himself, stuck out his time at them and said how he was able to just leave their asses all the time. The three of them laughed.

Eddie just thanked The Twins for the cooking though said they should learn to know how to be a bit more attentive so things don’t burn and all that.

Of course, this didn’t bode well with the three of them. There was subtle sign of penetration and discord in all of their faces. They all mutually enough disliked Eddie Gluskin.

The Walrider appeared and announced that Waylon really loved the meal, stressed on the word, and that if he could have more he would. Miles realised that the Walrider was working as well peacemaker. This was not the function it was designed for and Miles had a humorous image of Wernicke popping out a tube in his wheelchair machine seeing that his shadowy beast was doing something so antithetical to what his purpose was. Walrider Wallie was a very different sort of creature now.

Tim offered to get his tray and then almost spat at Eddie that unless he wasn’t heaving and breathing so bad to make snot on their food why not take the next kitchen duty. Miles had to smile at that as Eddie didn’t seem too keen. But he didn’t seem to mind and said he would.

Miles realised that he needed to do work. Look at the computer again. This was important. He might also need to write down notes and well pace and work. The battle with exposing Murkoff may or may not be over but he knew that there were other things involved that needed to be researched and looked at.

It was finally time to work.  

 

* * *

 

“It’s about the cows.”

Waylon had not noticed it before. But inside his bedside drawer was a burner type cell phone. And it vibrated suddenly to assert its existence. Though sceptical of its functions Waylon slowly pushed the get-go button to receive the call. And the Aussie like voice made it apparent it was Julian from VIRA Leaks.

At first he couldn’t register and he had coughed a bit due to both confusion and his fever then he could manage an “Oh.”

“Look Mr. Park, Waylon, I am already doing more than I am supposed to. You shouldn’t make more of a shit-storm for me if you could can not to.” Julian sounded pretty angry, not barking, but cold and forceful, “That livestock was found nothing short of a complete massacre as like Texas chainsaw. I had a feeling something could be connected to you so me and people had VIRA had to appease the farmers, both emotionally and monetarily, I mean the lodge we put you guys up in is already a lavish treat. You should be a bit more, well grateful, or at least acknowledging that we are doing more than our part and that we are trying to help – are you sick Waylon?”

Amongst the heavy lashing of criticism came an apologetic cough. And it was large, heavy and had phlegm and Waylon needed a couple of tissues. “Julian.” Waylon used his name, “I am, we are grateful, what happened is…the Walrider, he, he got out of his control. And Miles, he isn’t the same sort of person or human anymore. We also had an unpleasant exchange and…well…”

As Waylon told what had happened, the introduction to Eddie Gluskin, the Walrider’s lack of certain controls but Miles and they were working top priority to get him, as they did feel it was a “him”, on a track. And how Waylon had been hurt and how Miles sometimes channelled the Walrider’s claws on his own hands and that he would have had his head split open. And how angry he had been that the situation and at Miles. And how he was trying, trying his damndest, but he was actually grateful. No doubt on that. He was expecting a VIRA Leaks call or courier sooner and he knew that this was a very good, well-stocked safe house, and that it certainly seemed expensive. And that they all were feeling like normal human beings for a while because the accommodations were perfect. And he saw the extra helpings of all those new clothes and apparel, all the bandages and medical kits.

“God, seems like you had your pretty fucked up week too.” Julian commented, “Yeah, one of our more rich clients suggested it, she was like briefed on the situation and she decided this was the best. She also felt bad for the Variants. She felt that they needed a more of a life and less of an institution in their veins. I am happy she is generous.”  Then with more seriousness, “I don’t know about The Twins Waylon but, Eddie Gluskin is a pretty dangerous killer and mutilator. And now you are saying he is a Variant. God, of all the combinations.”

“He tried to castrate me in the asylum.” Waylon quietly put all those cards on the table.

“Fuck Waylon, should he be near you?”

“I don’t know how to drive him away Julian. And he seems to have really trying to change and you know this Mount Massive thing isn’t easy. I haven’t had the time or energy to check the news. What is happening?”

“Well…”  Julian said plainly but with interest, “Well, of course there is an uproar on Murkoff but their team is good too. And you know there are now some legal inquiries and court dates are set. Yet, there is also a lot of scapegoating. A lot of newer lies that are in the fray. In all of this Mount Massive had to be left a bit untouched. Though some reporters were allowed they had to be taken with SWAT as the criminally insane are still running amok. No one really knows what to do with them. They aren’t the normally insane people as cited by some legal consults as there was that ‘engine’ — they refer to it as that that addled their broken minds more. Some of the closer ones near the door and tamer ones were caught and relocated but I think you know they don’t know how to dig in deeper. The world out there is suspicious about Murkoff you were partly successful but let’s get to the grit here. We all have to see where this goes. And you guys have the thing, the Walrider, and that also makes things extra hard.”

“Miles said he had a camera when he was moving around the asylum but lost it in the Underground Labs when he became the new host.” Waylon thought purposefully for a moment, “We need to get that camera back Julian. It has more evidence and I don’t want anyone from Murkoff getting it.”

“Sorry Waylon I don’t anyone from VIRA leaks is wanna go and get that…in all that apocalyptic bullshit of a mess asylum…we are already short staffed…”

“No, we will go get it ourselves. Miles and I need to do a lot of research especially of the Zeichner facility and on this Dr Zeichner.”

“Let’s just say he is as mysterious and makes you question as Dr Wernicke…” Julian said frustrated, “Miles said Wernicke that old bastard is alive and I am not sure how he is affiliated with Zeichner much. All the tech in the safe house had hardcore firewalls so if you guys wanna research go right ahead.”

“I am going to and I need to understand more about the Walrider.” Waylon assuredly spoke with assertion, “I am really happy this place is like a small dispersed library. I saw a lot of relevant books.”

“Yeah well, our client, she helps us with funds, and her little wealthy circle, they also made that before we also implemented it as a safe house. What exactly do you wanna find?”

“The Walrider is also a mythical creature or something related to myth I think I remember and I wanna know, Miles told me many prisoners  talked about conjuring, but the Walrider is also machine but I have a feeling that it could be both.” Waylon was a bit energised now despite still feeling a weight on his head, “I have to know more about this thing or whatever situations we are dealing with. I was also subjected to the Morphogenic Engine but…but not long enough to become a Variant.  Maybe a few more runs and I would be. Something is pretty preternatural about that engine Julian. I remember it now in my nightmares and it sinks into my veins pretty badly. Like almost lightning. I really have to know what the hell I am dealing with on this.”

“You sound sick. Is it a normal fever?” Julian didn’t want to detract from the conversation but he could feel Waylon’s tiredness and his breathy tone.

“Yeah I guess it is.”

“How is the gash?”

“It’s healing. All of the occupants of the house has tended it and thank God no neurological damages I am doing things fine enough and I read some stuff.”

“Try writing to test your fingers as soon as possible.” Julian instructed, “You might need to anyway because you are doing your own research right?” Julian added, “I am gonna send a doctor over there soon. One of our available ones. Or more than one if possible. You know more work and safety in numbers. In our organisation you guys’ stories has chilled some of our associates.”

“I can imagine.” Waylon understood the fear that meeting the paranormal and the worldly together, “About all the finances….” As he realised it, “The killing of the cows. Is there any way I can help? You know I am programmer. I don’t want you guys to be financially overburdened.”

“Are you asking for another freelancing gig but with us Waylon?” Julian almost laughed and Waylon knew it sounded a bit strange, “Well, the computers has some shared networks qualities of your lodge. How about some debugging and bug-testing for one of our mainframes? Also, well, there is a new code draft that we needed some initial workouts on. You think you’re up for it?”

“Yes.” Waylon almost screamed in ecstasy, Oh there was a God to be coding again! “Yes, Yes, Yes.” At that point he couldn’t hide his happiness. There was this schoolboy’s enthusiasm in his tone that made Julian laugh.

“You are a pretty enthusiastic guy aren’t ya?” Julian laughed a bit more making Waylon blush a bit, “I guess people find that diligent and adorable about you.” Julian added as an afterthought, “I don’t think you are not getting much compliments about your work-ethic or your character lately have you, I thought I give you one? _Or_?”

Waylon blushed a bit more, “Actually…I think in some ways I _am_ …” Waylon bit his lip a bit, anyone liking him would find that an affectionate move, a lover would probably take him on the spot, “People here are being appreciative of me to point at times it makes me feel uncomfortable. I mean I am just an ordinary person. And they seem to make me feel extraordinary then I feel _oversaturated_ by what they feel about me. You know what I mean Mr. Julian Kairos?”

“You know your situations, both personal aspect and the research aspect, reminds of literary junctions. You know you remind people of a kind of Eastern magic realism you know a perception of a genealogy of traits? You know magic realism right?”

“A bit.” Waylon mumbled.

“And your research reminds me of Ali Smith’s experimental novel _How to be Both._ The experiment was they would have a modern day character and a painter from the past both tell portions of the story in the novel. Half of the copies of the book published start with the modern day protagonist’s tale and the other half starts with the painter’s perspective. It uses the idea of fresco as I read in the Guardian article so the modern day protagonist is told by the mother that fresco paintings when studied closely are intermeshed with their drafts as in you can see an earlier piece of the complete work underneath the colours. The painting in itself carries its own history, its chronology and its drafts with its completed work. When I think of the Walrider and how you guys interact and interacted with that spectral thing it feels like the concept introduced by Smith. Some people saw the Walrider first then may have to take a step back but others saw the Walrider’s origins and then saw the Walrider being formed. So, both interactions are meaningful and has their own ways of seeping into us. Both processes are relevant processes.” Julian finished this speech with a sigh, “Sorry, if what I said made no sense. Just trying to well you know put both of us as ease I guess.”

“It makes sense to me.” Waylon spoke quietly, “Now I wanna read both versions of the book to see what I feel when I read them as that.”

“Maybe you can borrow it from one of our associative buildings.”  Julian chuckled, “Look, Waylon, I will outsource the work for you if necessary but you need your rest now. I can see you are swamped and you can reach me with this cell anytime. I will see about your new arrangements. You know you can’t stay in that lodge forever. But maybe next time around you might have to fix your own accommodations too. It is gonna be a tough road ahead. You know I don’t lie to you. You might have to leave the country too. The possibility of that is also highly likely. I just hope you are physically well and healthy when you push and pull through all this.” Julian said this with the same firmness he remembered from the last time. But he was gentle too and now they had become more in pace with each other as people involved with each other. Waylon would dare say they were somewhat friends. Julian seemed sincere enough to want to stay with him till the end with this. It was important that Julian did stay. Aside resources the truth was Waylon felt he needed a friend a bit on the outside of all this to talk to. Who isn’t _affected_ like them about _this_. The word “this” was ambiguous as the entire incident. You need a friend out of all the incidences. And he felt Julian was the appropriate one. It is true that Julian was helping but Julian was on the peripheries and not in the modalities of direct contact. Waylon hoped it would stay that way because he was fearful what would happen to Julian if he did get into the crosshairs of direct contact.

“The hard part is that I don’t know who will be there with me or not.” Waylon confessed, “I don’t know even if Miles would be. There are a lot of things he may have to look at separately I don’t know.”

“It will be hard to part with him. Despite him being a host for a ghosty, huh.” Julian said it more rhetorically. Maybe, he knew it was not only the bond of a shared experience. Because The Twins and Eddie all had been in that asylum and Miles and Waylon had hardly crossed paths during that time. It was how they were able to see their experiences converge and how they made elements of their personalities and ideologies synchronise and also override and find bridges to each other in both a short time and a long time (the argumentative conversation they began with the gash). Friends needed this. And lovers and spouses also worked on a foundation as this or close to this, that something akin. The word “this” again ambiguously placed. But this time it was welcomed because — because Miles was in it. And Waylon blushingly recollected how he had been turned on by Miles. Perhaps it was mostly loneliness that aggravate his biological functions. And it was truly that. Eddie was good conversationalist but….he cared about Miles differently. Though he did wonder if he wouldn’t mind being embraced by someone calling him genuinely and sweetly “darling” all the time. Damn, the oddness of sexuality, by God, the randomness or seeming randomness of it at times. Perchance Miles and he felt more close to an “outside” world than the “inside” world of the asylum as well? In a way Eddie and The Twins, being incarcerated for a long time couldn’t. Also, maybe in a phenomenological manner that “outside” space of their comprehensions and tractability of structures and anti-structures clicked. Of course, it had to be more than visceral and physical. They had also felt each other’s’ subconscious in a way that wasn’t necessary always with two humans communicating. But it happened to them. Ironically, the periphery friend, Julian, saw it too.

“Actually…” Waylon added to the topic, “Wallie, we call him that, is becoming a really cool sort of spectre.”

“Yeah, don’t mind if I don’t take to that that easily mate. You saw what he _did_ to those poor cows. The survivors are like all not right in the head. Those cows are not going to pasture easily.”

“I understand.” Then realising, Waylon commented, “You called Wallie a ‘him’ I mean a ‘he’?”

“I don’t know Waylon calling him an ‘it’ would seem to me a bit too unknowable and all that and he did look masculine or something in musculature.” Julian was a bit hesitant, nervous, his voice displayed a concern, “And I would surely like to think something sentient out of control with its base impulses did all that damage you know. I don’t think a dumb or a damaged thing could. That’s why I fear for you. I hope he doesn’t go out of control again. It’s pretty fucked up when he does.”

“It feels pretty like a psychotic human unkindness doesn’t it…?”  Waylon gleaned from Julian’s nervousness.

“Yeah, it does, monsters of that spectral kind, like poltergeists you know ghosts with their white sheets, like moving like skin of unpasteurised milk it’s like they can blend in in some way you know. But you look at these kind of kaleidoscope shadows and you think of them moving frenetically around a room and you think that doesn’t belong all the time…” Julian was good at associating what he felt, Waylon felt so, he had a good enough grammar on these things and that is why he was the one of the head members and founders of VIRA leaks. Because this sort of spatial anarchy of sorts which can be done through both by allegory and logistics was a great skill. It needed exposition like an onion or a banana or even an orange or an apple. Perhaps the breadth of this in Julian was greater but Waylon felt they shared this quality.

“And you think of that mad frenzied kaleidoscope reminiscent of the 2002 adaptation of _Sleepy Hollow_ when you see the Walrider.” It came out of Waylon’s mouth organically enough. He heard Julian’s voice almost wobble with some dread. To Waylon he had talked even in halves with Wallie the Walrider was still manifested as Wallie but to Julian who saw a phantasm and then the corpses of poor innocent cows he knew the Walrider as something of an aberration of nature. They weren’t both wrong. There was a truth in each petri-dish of analyses. However, what became as a mutation could acclimatise to be natural if it respect the syntaxes of the other ecological things around. Waylon knew by then that this conversation would lead him to have a conversation with the Walrider.

“Yeah, pretty much mate.”

“You know, it’s like, what he did was inexcusable but…but he was born from the miserable mania and psychopathy of the human mind from what I mostly got.” Waylon explained, “To him the asylum was the only thing that existed and you know he didn’t know what human lives could be aside madness and exploitation. The cows were pretty much patients and he as the sordid scientist went all out of control of them. That is the norm he saw exercised and after a while Billy Hope ironically did the same thing. So this base feeling of being in control via carnage is something he has horribly, to an extent incorporated. But Wallie wants to know. Wallie is curious. Wallie loved how different the lodge is though it scared him too for it was wholly away from the system he thought was there. I think Wallie will know more about human life soon. I think intrinsically, in a strange, undefinable and maybe undiscernible way, Wallie is _human_.”

“I hope you are right mate.” Julian sounded surprised, but then became warm, “I do hope you are right. I am surprised by your character Mr. Waylon Park. You are being kind to something or someone that has such questionable origins and you want to empathise even with it.”

“I just wanna give him something, a chance, or at least let him feel the word. I know I am nobody saintly or great to really give him a chance but I do think the way things are unravelling I should try to guide him as much as possible.” Waylon felt an obligation but also a sense of trust, “I just at times, maybe wrongly, look at him also as this sort of weird tadpole or infant. I don’t know. I can’t always say he is responsible for what he feels. Not the way the researchers at Murkoff who very well knew what was going on should feel responsible.”

“You know Mr. Miles Upshur should be well happy that you wanna help out a lot.” Julian laughed, “God knows how to place ‘em alright. You are perfect for this kind of thing you know. Whether you know it or not. I wanted to let you know. You are perfect for this. No one else in the cosmos at this era of time could replace you in this. You are as intimate as lively as that star dust sort of thing you know. A Hubble telescope but for the Walrider. And maybe Miles, the host, it’s a binary star too. Or, maybe you are a star like thing like them too. It’s you know Miles is like the _2001 Space Odyssey_ sequels but in a different graph. And you are exploring and even defragmenting that citadel or monolith. It’s fucking out of best sci-fi movies but it’s too real and too fucking awesome in its own little way.”  

“You have a knack for analogising things.” Waylon gave a soft laugh.

“And you Waylon know how to really get the kernel and bulk out of things. I don’t know if you are a programmer or an artist like thing or both or just a new sort of renaissance participant. Either way, you are doing great.”

“Thank you.”

“Look, now it’s the time to really cut the call rest well Waylon.”

“Really, thanks for everything Julian.”

“Hey, if we are alive, in the future, hell, maybe we can watch that 2002 _Sleepy Hollow_ with the Walrider. That sounds like a great movie night don’t it?”

 

* * *

 

“Waylon is sleeping and he isn’t your nanny you know.” Miles almost seethed as he saw Eddie come into the library. Miles had wandered into the small study-cum-library so that he could surreptitiously check his mail. And also to make the fake ones that couldn’t be traced. It made sense that maybe he need to research his notes and contacts list to what he could find. Because the “doing” had stopped for a bit and he preferred that it didn’t. There was a lot to be done alongside personal affects in intrapersonal and interpersonal communications (God, the technically of it sounded so corporate fuck-speech), and he didn’t want this idleness of an idyllic to be dragged.

“Yes, I know.” Eddie glared back, “After the damages you done Waylon darling needs his rest.”

“The damages I done.” Miles almost barked, “Don’t be so saintly Sherlock seeing you are a career body-mutilator and your crime spree is pretty much a record statistic.”

Eddie glowered a bit and then looked a bit helpless. Miles was telling the truth and it stung harder than a wasp’s stingy butt because it was accurate. Then he almost quietly, but half-defeated asked, “What are you doing Upshur?”

“Work.” Miles said normally enough, “Being productive.”

“What kind of work do you do?” Eddie was authentically curious because he did not know anything about this Miles Upshur. Aside that he had been so close to Waylon. Though Waylon did embrace him too it was like the embrace of Miles was too intimate a stance rather than consolation alone. And it burned and charred his bones with good old fashioned broth of jealousy and envy with the tad bit of spite to add well finesse to that simmering little cauldron.

“I am a journalist.” Miles explained, then with a narrow eye, hawk-like in its penetrative quality, “You know Gluskin I once wrote a piece about you too and your crimes…”

Eddie stiffened. Body freezing and then heating, shivering. The fact that this stranger knew so much about him made him sick. And angry. There was a cold exchange of the eyes that even dead-fish would feel compelled to scale away from.

Momentarily, the impasse or whatever it was that gilded their stare  became less potent and Eddie went ignoring Miles and Miles went to ignoring Eddie and Miles wanted to see some of his notes, part of them soggy, some laminated (by Julian) and sifting through journals.

Eddie picked up Love poems by Anne Sexton and decided to pull to a random poem. Miles noticed the poem while he went through a small desk near a shelf and found a newly unopened Moleskin (which squeal internal joy because it was important that he jot down observations as soon as possible). It was a poem called “Mr. Mine” and it read as follows:

“Notice how he has numbered the blue veins  
in my breast. Moreover there are ten freckles.  
Now he goes left. Now he goes right.  
He is building a city, a city of flesh.  
He's an industrialist. He has starved in cellars  
and, ladies and gentlemen, he's been broken by iron,  
by the blood, by the metal, by the triumphant  
iron of his mother's death. But he begins again.  
Now he constructs me. He is consumed by the city.  
From the glory of boards he has built me up.  
From the wonder of concrete he has molded me.  
He has given me six hundred street signs.  
The time I was dancing he built a museum.  
He built ten blocks when I moved on the bed.  
He constructed an overpass when I left.  
I gave him flowers and he built an airport.  
For traffic lights he handed out red and green  
lollipops. Yet in my heart I am go children slow.”

  
It hauntingly accentuated, in some offhand way, a way that people attempted to change people, if this context of Gluskin was taken into the fray. It could also be a relationship that served as a great passionate thing for Sexton but then it had to be done with. After all Sexton ended that the way the guy went along with extremes was something pretty discordant after a while though fascinating in the beginning. It was like making her into something that she possibly did not completely agree with. Though for a time it was fun. When Miles looked at Eddie’s face he could actually see that perchance he too figured some sort of non-harmony in the poem. That the love is too possessive or rather too much to be possessed. Unlike “The Kiss” this poem was a bit melancholic and made urban spaces feel suffocated. As though going too much into details. Miles remembered that in Jorge Louis Borges story “The Book of Sand” where for a person the shelving of too many details became too overwhelming and scary and scarring. Miles realised that details are beautiful when they too have range and pitch, for isn’t that the distinction between opera and a scream? Also, a panorama to a clutter? Human beings loved chaos in frames and even orders with loose sleeves or rather he thought open-minded people did. To Miles the gentrification and hegemony of corporations was a problem both to people who had to work in them and also people affected by them. For once humans were enthralled by machines so the construct of a machine was so appealing because it was non-commonplace and almost esoteric knowledge, the shaping of discs and the valves in the circuitry, it was like the smooth rocks and fauna with flora that existed underneath the lake. However, that too needs to be less ubiquitous. By making everything have that machine-construct appeal Miles felt the world around dabble too much in kitsch and depersonalisation. Humans felt extremes so immediately that they thought that their habits and environments should be extreme almost subconsciously. And in that extremity lied killers like Gluskin who though by pure debasement of others he could somehow gain something.

But he had gained nothing. Rather he had “built ten blocks” of nothing good for himself and had a museum of his own horrors and regrets to look at it. No happiness there. Just a boneless piece of squalid spirit. That hard-bit the windpipe and slowly and burningly painfully the choke comes.

Suddenly a piece of paper shifted out of the book and landed on the floor. Eddie and Miles simultaneously looked at it and both, in unison, went for reach for it. Their eyes made a contact then. This is the closest they had been to each other. Tolerated each other’s space. They shifted a bit uncomfortably back. They glowered a bit. A second’s time. Then some second’s pause. They both almost had their hands upon each other. Eddie looked down and Miles slowly touched the paper’s surface, his fingers lightly on them, as if caressing a film of some separate vision. Eventually, he picked it up a bit. It had pieces of writing on it. Poetry. There was a name of top, almost as if it was just a doodle with the serious stuff. It was called Zayn Ahmi. Miles heard that name before. Was it a…yes, isn’t it a university professor’s name? Taught or still taught at Berkeley? Forgot which subject…But the long pieces of papers now revealed where jotted down poetry. The first was a poem called “The City” by Eddy Van Vliet.

“The city is covered with places you  
took from me. Full of joint  
footsteps, full of joint laughs.  
They were sheltered by dreams and if need be  
love grabbed the gun to protect them.  
  
Tell my legs how to evade  
what belonged to them.  
  
Tell them. They refuse to believe  
that the theaters have burnt, restaurants  
were hit by plagues, terraces vanished  
into thin air, hotels closed  
the courtyards was demolished.  
  
I bow my head and think  
the rain will not hit me. Thus  
I shall forget what was taken from me.”

Eddie looked at the name of the poet that matched his. Miles smirked a bit cockily. Eddie realised a namesake tease and just glared a bit. Though Miles noted how the city here, non-constructed, put into ruin rather its construction was the cause of melancholy. This was followed by something Miles immediately recognized as the last lines of a long poem called “I Speak of the City” by Octavio Paz from Latin America.

“I speak of the city, shepherd of the centuries, mother that gives  
   birth to us and devours us, that creates us and forgets.”

Miles and Eddie both looked at those words. Something nostalgic, something foreign. Miles noticed that the sexes had converged to an androgyny here. Mother and Shepherd. Male and Female. And it seems Sexton’s and Vliet’s voices both came to the same n-dimensional space as a manifold. Miles wondered why he thought about manifolds that spoke so much about cross-sectional and surfaces and depth perfection configured by spatial perception. How funny when mathematics and poetry speak the same language. Then after that Eddie read aloud the first stanza of a poem called “Untitled” by a person called So Chong-Ju:

‘ “ Pine flower’s blooming,” says  
a friend on the phone  
a hundred miles away.  
“Just think of the scent!”

“I am  
        thinking of it,” I say  
to myself, facing  
a thousand years away.  
“Can you imagine  
                            this scent?”’

The last stanza was read by Miles. It was almost like the same scholastic reading class. Miles smirked cockily once more. Eddie actually looked flabbergasted. As if he was hoping for an explanation. They both had been crouched on the floor. They now got up and Eddie and Miles looked at each other. They both seemingly occupied a space of common interest at the moment.

“I understand the three poems of cut-outs were about cities.” Eddie looked at Miles, who looked he opened his mouth to talk, but closed it and nodded, “But the last poem seemed very personal. That’s the word.”

“The ironic things are that cities are personal. A friend of mine once said…” Miles fondly thought of Yesfir and continued an analysis, “That cities minimalistic reading as if understood, modern cities actually, help guys more than girls. That is why I think Sexton feels the urbane is limp or can be dangerous if so extreme. It alienates people. She isn’t wrong. She isn’t wrong at all. The Vliet guy he uses it to show his ruin thus he considered the city as his mainframe or rather what he could identify by. Yet, I guess because he is only using city imagery to talk about himself he has been edited by the city experience himself. And then you have the end lines of a much larger poem by Octavio Paz which talk pretty androgynously of the city which is pretty cool. And So Chong-Ju is Korean poet and very elderly. The sort of poem he writes can also be incorporated to the city experience. It is like a metaphysical space and with memories that etch on to yourself. I think Zayn Ahmi, this guy who compiled these later poems wanted that to be a sort of inter-bridge for Sexton’s poem. I like it.” Then Miles said, “I think the poems are also geographically distant, like I think Vliet is somewhere from Europe or another America and Sexton is American, Paz is Latin American and finally you got Asia. So it also read like from West to East transitioning.”

“I think that’s…” Eddie looked and blinked, “Interesting…it’s like following a silk trade backwards.”

“Yeah I think it was meant to be some sort of experiment or something by this Ahmi guy.” Miles concluded then laughed, though he was piqued by the analogy Eddie used, “You know that friend of mine also said that apocalypses, urban ones, are pretty male-centred too. Like I think she is right.” Thinking of Yesfir’s theories made him sometimes happy, “You know they are like a variation of the cowboy western. Like men, single or outcasts like, feel the city or civilisation fall apart and then they feel helpless. It’s like a social meltdown for the male protagonist, as she stated, or even psychological breakdown for him and it is manifested via the civilisation and all that. You know how in cowboy westerns the small towns and fights signify a guy’s instinct to be wild and all. And she is said that females may write a post-apocalyptic script differently. Like they might already be alternate cities or farms and insects harvested. I think Margaret Atwood, I read online, already did something like that with her MadAddam trilogy, these books on a plague that wipes out most of humanity except few. So I guess nature is scary for many a men, she was trying to say, but for women it may be easily be accepted as many cities make women feel trapped. Though she did say it wouldn’t apply to all women and all men. Just a sociological hypothesis.” And Miles grasped that he had shared something pretty significant with Eddie. And he was going to find out if it was write or wrong to do so,

Eddie looked pretty attuned to what he had said as if he had not felt that Miles would talk to him as this or describe this much but then he smirked a bit softly, “I think your friend is right a bit. I like smaller towns better than cities. Though I find it strange…” Eddie looked outside the evening outside with its moon singing lovely, luscious light and crickets chirping with some occasional cicadas and the forum of frogs, “We are far away from cities yet we think about them”

“Like pine-scent huh…Chong-Ju is right. Pine has always been a national staple in air freshening for cars and trucks and all that.”  Miles chuckled.

“I actually like eating apples a lot. In pies, cakes, custards or you know just raw. I guess they taste like some kind of home. Perfect home you are supposed to have.” Eddie was being pretty personal too, “Do you like apples?”

“I like apples and grapes. I like all kinds of grapes. It reminds me of high-culture without the high. As in you know not being a snobby wine enthusiast or taster with like oh you don’t know this from that. Frankly, I know squat about wine myself but I think it’s rude to point that out. Like I wouldn’t know much about silk-routes. I mean I know a bit but there are so many types of silk. And me not knowing them isn’t so well you know such a tragic primitive man thing.”

“I guess I always liked silk because it felt like it knew the human body.” Eddie looked excited, “I found it fascinating how it fit well with so many things that humans used or wore.”

“Yeah well, silk is commonly known and appreciated like the rose, like it is one of the beauties that deserve their applause.” Miles noted.

They both were thinking it. As if by some stuff…that Waylon was a bit like both though unfortunately he wasn’t appreciated all the time.

“Roses have thorns.” Eddie commented.

“Cats have fangs.” Miles smirked.

“I don’t get you?” Eddie looked at him.

“Beautiful things are more beautiful when they can _protect_ **themselves**. When they know their grounds, can land on their feet, can vine up and make gardens. Don’t take bullshit from anyone and show their beauty is a whole package not just their furs or petals.” Miles smirked and crossed his arms elegantly.

“I suppose you are right. A de-clawed cat doesn’t always look at good. I rather get scratched I guess, as long it’s not too cruel, then to see a cat seething and frothing at me all the time.” Eddie suddenly looked at Miles, “You like cats more than dogs.”

“Are you a dog person Eddie?”  Miles asked.

“I had more interactions with dogs than cats. They are the community animals you know.”

“I kept more cats as a kid. Dad liked them too. Studied feline behavioural stuff. Was pretty neat.”

“I find cats are pretty good at sleeping and …jumping…” Eddie looked a bit surprised, “I find it weird how such a big napper could do both gracefully.”

“I guess cats are more complex than people give them credit for. Dogs are well-liked and they are pretty complex too. But it is this bias that humans may have. I think something like this was also brought forth in the play _Death of a Salesman_ that being well-liked may seem to be more meritorious than any other thing. Which is pretty fucked up but well some people do things that way.” Miles suddenly said, they were having a full-on breadth conversation. With all depth and angles and it felt like they went to wonderland and this was the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Nor else Miles found it strange that they could talk so much, all at once.

Eddie found it strange too. “I hope Waylon is okay.”

“Yeah me too.” Miles said softly.

“I am better than you.” Eddie suddenly tensed up, “I am larger looking and I got blue eyes and black hair and a great build.”

Miles gets the notion. The accounts are taken into consideration.  Smirking with absolute deduction, “Well I am svelte like a combo between a dancer and lumberjack and common aesthetics go you can’t beat that gladiator.”

“Are you saying I lack finesse?” Eddie was really teeth-baring.

“Well, you do, okay, you are a career killer and I am a journalist that tries to uncover corporations that try to fuck up people. I have a moral compass and last time I checked Waylon does too. You seriously think looking more macho or being better built is what he will only care about?” Miles cocked his brow and said this with a very firm and irascible determination. His body language conveyed that he would punch Eddie’s jaw if need be.

There was a hand raised, by Eddie…Slowly, it reached and slowly touched and rubbed Miles’s chin. Suddenly, Eddie was like, “Waylon talks a lot about being kissed…I think he really likes being kissed…”

And in a moment. As if as some synergic force in them, both angry, aggressive, competitive but coherent on something akin to frustration on many quarters made both Miles and Eddie kiss each other. At first it was just the lips. Their eyes wide open. Their breathing guttural and heavy as though something sexual but also violent was trying to gain supremacy. Then out of nowhere there was a calm and then another storm where some odd need for sex and the fierce impulse to erect each other’s dominant traits was in fire. Their mouths opened and soon the clicking of tongues and teeth hit electric bolts at each as Zeus and Thor and then waned as silent as sea in in its oyster of serenity and life beating. There was an influx of grunts and moans. Their hands were not free. They jostling each other. Distance reaching manhandling and some half-embraces. Eddie pushed Miles up against a wall. Some minutes later Miles did the same. And they both groaned and glared. And breathed hard. Felt something warm with arousal and slick. And then they stared at each other. Breathing heavily. Eddie kissed sloppy but earnest. Miles kissed raw but rhythmic. Eddie admitted to himself Miles was kissing better but Miles admitted to himself that Eddie’s kissing was nice enough.

They both looked at each other. Miles was wondering what the fuck was happening? Kissing this guy was not on his list to-dos and well he was surprised. But Eddie somewhat smiled. Eddie caressed the side of Miles’s hair. Miles touched Eddie’s cheek a bit.

“I guess this is kinda a truce huh, at least between us.” Miles felt it needed to be said.

“I guess…” Eddie looked embarrassed, “I wonder what…Waylon darling would think…”

“It’s not like you cheated on him. You know…I mean…we are not dating him or really I don’t know…this is kinda well. Unexpected.” Miles chuckled a bit nervously.

“Your mouth is very nice.” Eddie didn’t know why but he said it.

“Thanks for being so warm and receptive with me.” Something felt that was the correct response; that made waves of appreciative compliments sweep on. After all Miles knew Eddie as a killer so never had he, in a wild daydream, thought that Eddie would be a normal kisser of him: though he didn’t know what this signified.

The Walrider swirled in a bit suddenly, “Guess what it’s raining outside again.” All this time, curiously, Miles had felt telepathically that Wallie wanted to just hang out a bit with the Twins and only the porch so that he could get a bit accustomed to the frequencies of outside noises.

“Is it now?” Miles made a perfunctory move to leave. Take a break. But he looked at Eddie a bit who settled down an armchair and decided to put away the book of poems and put the carefully folded pages inside too. Then he just reflexively brought out a book and it was _Girl Meets Boy_ by Ali Smith. Miles gave another look that he would be back. After all he needed to do research.

Downstairs he heard The Twins making some chicken and fried rice for dinner. The smell was actually very nice.

“I heard that night rain like this is called Serein. I think I heard it from a scientist once I think. Or Billy did. I like putting the words petrichor and serein together.”

“Yeah, those sound together. Serein huh?” Mile looked as he stood on the porch outside the lodge, the rain had stopped again and now under some fleshy grey clouds, leaving and coming together he saw the traces of belts of millions stars and galaxies fluttering about, “Sounds almost like serene right. Right now, the universe feels a bit serene too.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I didn't think Miles and Eddie would suddenly kiss either. They aren't a bad ship when I think of it. So the awkwardness has increased oooooo the tensions XD Anyways, I do plan on putting them on actions and stuff. You seen what Waylon and Miles are doing now. Jotting down stuff and things. I hope you like all the other stuff I put in like the poems and things. Well comment on as usual.


	17. Attempts + Partial conclusive data

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. I am also sorry if this chapter is shorter. But I hope you guys like it. It was an exploration for me on certain things and I thought it was fun to write as well.

 

**Attempts + Partial conclusive data**

 

Waylon precipitated through the high and lows of a fever with sweat, colds and a feeling of feeling numbness, weightlessness and then grounded by the fluctuations of body temperature. There wasn’t much to feel aside the fever and the realization that he had very important things to do. Like researching on the Walrider and things related to Murkoff. No wonder this would be a very involved and hectic procedure. With him and Miles going at it. Waylon didn’t know if The Twins or Eddie would want to help or should feel inclined to be interested to help out. They were Variants who may want nothing to do with Murkoff and anything related to the asylum or the corporation. But it wouldn’t also hurt telling them what he and Miles would be up to because…Waylon thought it was both courteous and also conscientious. The Twins and Eddie were not intruders in the lodge and they were given almost the same circumstances. And The Twins had been helping clean common areas of the house and they all were operating like a commune or even a weird “family” or sorts. It would be somewhat cruel to not tell them some things. This would allow them to decide what they themselves wanted to do. What they wanted to achieve. The Twins perhaps wanted a chance at a human, ordinary life. Eddie may even want the same things. Yet, Eddie’s case was more complicated as he had this fancy for Waylon and Waylon liked that he had decent and human conversations with him. Yet everyone has their own roads. And telling Eddie to be committed in something he wasn’t committed in was hardly fair in these conditions.  In fact, Eddie could just stay if he wanted and do nothing at all and if things got miserable he would discuss out things with him if that did happen.

While he rode out of the fever and delirium he realized he wanted another shower. The stickiness of that encounter did not leave him quickly and to be honest he didn’t want the sweat to be so soaked with him. As he felt the white semi-translucent quality of the tiles when he entered the bathroom something akin to the Rorschach test came in his head again. That perturbed him for a moment. Yet he recovered. T _hat didn’t happen to me for so long. Hope it is like residual things man. It is pretty annoying if it continues. Another worry to the least._ Turning on the water, semi-cold, he got inside not looking at the shadow nearby.

“ _You smell like sex…”_

“Wallie…Oh God…you little…” Waylon breathed hard and sharp and almost swung at the wall, “You scared me.”

_“Well, I am a bit scary I suppose.”_ Walrider smiled, _“I come to check up on you.”_

“Well, thank you…I…” looking at his water lathered skin with soap bubbles coming off, “I guess I am just cleaning up. A shower is good in fever.”

_“Wanna have some chamomile tea_?” Wallie asked smiling, _“I heard it helps you calm down and it also well, helps you sleep. You should rest a bit more.”_

“Thank you for getting concerned about me.” Waylon smiled a bit.

_“Why do you smell of sex?”_ Wallie giggled, _“You dug into…onanism…right…the term…”_

“You have changed dramatically.” Waylon narrowed his eyes.

_“What…not mean to offend…no offense…no offense…”_

“There.” Waylon suddenly pointed out, “When you are comfortable enough you talk well enough and you also get to access somewhat high frequency words. Also you are developing well when you are comfortable enough and also facing an adversity with good focus. But when you get nervous or get a lot of unreasonable doubts you start faltering. Ironically, though you are a nanomachines powered creatures you are ruled a lot by your emotions and impulses. It could like lithographic imprints, a sense of base humanness has transferred you but I think that is too minimalist of you. I think you are essentially also ruled by emotions as humans. And logic as well. But you are developing fast. I think I first noticed this as you emit static and also are troubled by static. Humans have homeostasis, anatomical features even in the ears that help regulate sound and coordination. You, on the other hand, still are developing anatomically and psychologically. Humans have a lot of psychosomatic gravity and differences too. Humans rely both on their logic and emotions and psychological states. You are still developing these. You know humans’ noses are prominent but the brain knows how to ignore seeing one’s own nose. You don’t have a nose but I am happy you don’t because if you did at your current state let’s say you would consider that static too and would be very unhappy with your face I think. So I am happy you aren’t in that position.”

_“The Morphogenic engine made people also hate their bodies_ …” Wallie looked sad, _“I could not understand why people would be dissatisfied with themselves after the engine or before and it made me both contemptuous of them but also sympathetic: I think those are the right words. The feelings were contradictory and it hurt me because I did not know which to choose. I wanted to choose one or the other but I couldn’t easily and I feel unhappy for that. I also felt unhappy that I had contradictory feelings in the first place or feelings at all. Something nudge that I should not have these feelings, eliminate them, expunge them to oblivion but I couldn’t stay oblivious of them. Sometimes, I didn’t want to listen to Billy either I got more interested in you and Miles. I did not like Billy making me kill always it felt pointless and dull. Now, you are talking solely about me so importantly but also with so much emotion. I don’t know what to say.”_ Walrider looked a bit earnestly,

_“Sometimes I really hate these feelings they mean nothing to me. Or, should feel nothing, am I not right? I was designed to be a war-machine. But instead I became a survivalist when I saw Billy die I was so afraid and angry and I was like I am not dying with him. I don’t want to die with his rage and his misery. I had admired Miles. His body and his dedication and his spirit so I was like fuck all of this. And I entered him just like that. Miles was angry at me told me that I hurt him and it was violation in a way. I didn’t know that and to be honest it’s not that I wanted to hurt him or make him think I was trying to molest him. I was scared and I was also not happy with Billy but I remembered how more consistent and flexible Miles was and he was around. Also, I won’t lie, I was pissed at Miles too. I was like you wanted to get rid of me. Well, what about now? But that was mean and cruel. It’s not like Miles hated me personally. Personally, I would have hated me too. Wernicke said no one was getting out until me and Billy were done and that was partly true. Billy was attacking anyone he found a threat or anyone he didn’t like and he was taking control of his life after so long after being a pawn to everyone. And he was abusing his abusers the same way they had abused him. I couldn’t blame him. But I didn’t fully **agree** with him. I found no satisfaction out of my own with it all the time. All the humans seemed the same to me. None of them remarkably looked different. But through Billy’s feelings I could see them as individual offenders or friends. But then Billy’s feelings were always not **my** feelings. I don’t know if all of this makes sense or not. It just his feelings always didn’t correlate with mine. And I felt our connection lag at those points. It felt really odd. I knew Billy’s mother through Billy but at those times I had no concept good enough to define mother and I was confused at Billy’s love for his mother and their love in general even if it was pattern or routine because Billy and his mother were always mostly quarrelling and I wanted to know what they both really thought of his each other. Beside the powerful rage and sadness I wasn’t always grappling with Billy’s more in tune or subtler, calmer feelings. I don’t know there is a lot of things about humans and even about me I am still now completely clueless about.” _

“That’s actually pretty normal Wallie.” Waylon smiled, “Even having contradictory feelings are normal because it allows you the scope to question and come to the best conclusion for you as you are doing now.” Waylon paused, bit his lip, a strange current went through the Walrider as he saw that and elsewhere Miles felt the current too but did not know why saw a vague image of lips and licked his own thought about Waylon for a bit and started looking at some notes he had written comparing them to journals and notes he written in the asylum. Wallie looked at Waylon’s kissable, bitable lips — for a so-called nerd Waylon could beat an Adonis of popular trope with one finger. His cool, dewy, glinted silver eyes and chestnut locks locked nicely with his nice accentuated face and the long nose. The eyes had a soft slant showing his Korean ancestry. The lips were mid-weighted, not too full but well in length and volume. Waylon started again, “I guess for Billy his mother was the only reality he had that he could comfortably fit with despite how messed up it was. Murkoff took his identity away and also caged his body and made him a subject. Human beings hate being made into such things. In fact you do as well.” Waylon smiled, “You talk like an individual and would prefer being referred to as one and that is important. That is very human about you and I think you should appreciate it and like it. It’s certainly something aware and something that makes sense.”

_“Hey, uhmm, I heard you have children. You must miss them a lot am I correct?”_

“Yeah I do.” Waylon got a bit sad, “I love my kids a lot. I am happy they understood why I couldn’t be near. I feel I should be taking out to soccer and basketball and helping them with homework. I also love drinking tea with my wife of then and just well talk and make love. I guess I do value the ordinary and find the extraordinary there. I think even after all of this is over I won’t be able to be with my kids as much. Or, maybe I can. I can get them around and I know Lisa would definitely agree to joint custody.”

_“Did you divorce Lisa?”_ Wallie asked a bit tenderly and slowly.

“Yeah. It was over more so before what happened at the asylum. I thought afterwards getting back to her would rekindle our relationship but while driving I realised I would love to go to her but not with the same feelings. Lisa has moved on a different sphere and I another, it’s not set theorem anymore.” Waylon said this a bit automatically, without effort.

_“Set theorem?”_ Wallie looked confused then normally, _“Oh, no longer compatible or together. I understand. Don’t worry. If your kids are like you they will be quite more than understanding.”_

“I feel like they shouldn’t have to be understanding as such.” Waylon made an annoyed face, “I feel they deserve better.”

_“And maybe they are getting the best for them in a way. I am not thinking the word broken or the shit that Billy has. Rather it is best to have this space than the sort of weird shit Billy had with his mom I feel. So toxic and so wrong yet feeling he can’t never have anything better. I think your kids know this is on good terms and that’s the best thing.”_

“I think the kids saw that I wasn’t getting really along with Lisa and that did pain them. But when I talked to them they sounded relieved even about the divorce. It hurt me a bit. It felt as though they were anticipating it or holding their breaths on it. But I think it is better than feeling a silly squabble would make anything and everything chaotic. I guess they are happy to know their places or places to work from. I am happy for them. That they can process so much. I would have cried and been totally stupid.”

“And then move on and be strong.” Wallie smiled, “You shouldn’t cut yourself short. I have seen you adapt to things a lot better than many even if it was fast or slow. I think you approach things with dignity thus your fate feels dignified. I just feel so humbled and awed. I feel genuine respect when I see that in you Waylon.” The greyish-blackish eyes closed and he opened and smiled, “I wish to one day develop something like that. Even though I am not human.”

Waylon felt a blush, then his heart feel a weight, a pride that was more satiation of something touching than arrogance. To hear a Walrider, a non-human, speak of him so highly, “I am speechless.”

_“You seem also a great father. You don’t seem like that you are well ignoring them you just can’t be near them. But I bet you were so conscientious and good that well your actions and words still, I guess, resonate with them. It resonates in a way that makes you feel happy and them happy too because your lives are always intertwined and rich in that way.” Wallie smiled a bit brightly, “I feel your kids will always know their father is a great human being.”_

“Wallie, I am honoured, I am also surprised you think like this…no offense…it’s just…” Waylon looked a bit dumbfounded.

_“No offense taken. I know… I am a bit surprised myself. I started thinking more when I was with you guys. You and Miles, The Twins and even that Gluskin. Well, mostly you and Miles. You people make me think. And I thought of resonations because well I work through a lot via psychic resonations if you think on it. Hey, if crazy helped make me I am sure ethics and beauty can do wonders beyond what I can imagine.” Wallie smiled, “So, I envy your kids. They must be quiet awesome with a dad like you.”_

“I try my best.” Waylon answered honestly.

_“Something tells me you exceed this capacity.”_ Walrider smiled.

Suddenly, Waylon reached out and touched the Walrider’s face. There was a glitter and shatter of static, as though touching the screen of some crystal display but also more physical than that act. Waylon and Wallie were both quiet. Their silence pitched in some actions that need not to be spoken. There was a slight tremor of communication. The vibrations which came from Walrider and also from Waylon; his more fleshy and tangible and the Walrider’s tangibility a bit more ripple and concentrated circular. Then there was more evolved breathing in Waylon’s body that was not as conspicuous on his body as it was on Wallie’s. Wallie was probably still edging towards the idea of organs. Waylon had been born with them and already had an incubation period. It seems the Walrider did not have that benefit. The sad thing was his creation was more like some improvisation. And not everything could or should be improvised, however, Waylon admired that the Walrider took it in good faith and tactfully. God knows he couldn’t. The fact that he was a fugitive did not really bode well with him. Nevertheless, this topic, he felt could be able to be discussed with Wallie and Miles. After all The Twins and Eddie may not know much on this. Or, did they? Guess he had to talk to them to find out.

Then, with a sudden twist, Waylon grabbed Wallie’s face a bit roughly. Wallie jerked slightly but there was a knowingness in both of their eyes. “You are trying to also test if companionship allows me to become a suitable host and lose the bioluminescence that prevents you to fully integrate with my body aren’t you? Tricky of you Wallie…” Waylon smirked a bit. But then loosened his grip, “I guess it worked a bit. I can touch you a bit more.”

_“Waylon, the thought did cross my mind, but my feelings are **also** genuine_.” Walrider looked horrible offended and swatted away Waylon’s hand and they both were amazed to see it have a human response of no damage. Probably, communicating with Waylon also increased Wallie’s human gestures? Well, that thought _did_ cross _both_ their minds.

“I know that too.” Waylon smiled, happy to see some progress, some actual believable progress that reinsured hope and the faith that things could be and would improve. “Thanks, it feels great to see someone excel it helps the overall morale. Despite having dual intentions I am happy that you did what you did because you didn’t really trick me and you wanted a connection. It allowed me to find some strength in also continuing with my own work.”

The Walrider softened so much and caressed Waylon’s cheek and Waylon looked awe at his affections: _“Only a person as **you** gifted with understanding can truly appreciate a creature like me or something like this. Who can also forgive easily some selfishness with such care. But also admonish when needed. I am truly very honoured that I made your acquaintance Waylon Park. I desire and also wish that I can truly help you and become your friend.” _

Waylon put a hand on the clawed one of the Walrider, “Wallie I too wish to be your friend.  I am honoured to know you as well. Please take care of Miles too. I worry about him.”

Wallie nodded, _“Don’t worry I do as well.”_

“I would like some chamomile tea…” Waylon smiled, “If you don’t mind?”

_“Sure, Sure…”_ Wallie smiled too, then, _“Don’t be mad if I ask someone to get it for you because I, uhmm,”_ Wallie tried opening the doorknob to the bathroom but it put blisters on the wood in a strange popping noise alarming both Walrider and Waylon, _“I may be able to expertly **touch you** but…I still have trouble opening doors…imagine how I would assassinate a tea-cup…”_

 

* * *

 

 

Miles had been typing and writing. In the small study on the right side near the rooms. Eddie sat around reading poems. Miles was a bit unsure at what needed to be seen. Everything was happening fast and slow. The days got a lot longer when you were on a mission and he was actually happy they were living in a lavish lodge for the time being. That the accommodations were furnished with research materials. It seemed Julian also was very interested to get to the bottom of things and so he decided it was best to give them what they needed. After all, there were other stories in the world that needed coverage and they were ones invested and involved in this one. So taking nature take its course was only natural.

The Twins had come to the library and Tom took _Matilda_ by Roald Dahl and Tim took _Kiss, Kiss_ by Roald Dahl. The first was a children’s book and the second was adult horror. Though by the same author and Miles wondered how they would take it. Did they know Dahl? Miles thought about asking them later what their thoughts were on the books. Tim came in announcing that Waylon was recuperating well and that he was making some chamomile tea and if the others would want some as he make a batch for themselves too (the tea-bags were there) and it was calming from what the Walrider explained. This piqued both Eddie and Miles as no one really figured him a tea connoisseur so Eddie chuckled a bit but Miles smiled and affirmed why not. So Eddie also asked for a mug. The Twins didn’t mind doing household chores but Miles knew it was unfair to impose on them so much. Miles said he would gladly make dinner for them today. Some baked salmon with lemon rice with Persian fashion with a tender white sauce. Yesfir and he had made it multiple times so he was a connoisseur at that.

The Twins happily agreed and went on to their room to read.  It was strange they did not wish to stay in the library, Miles pondered, did they feel an odd vibe between him and Eddie? The fact they were not at each other’s throats was admirable in respect to the previous interactions but he didn’t want it to smell so much of the erotic that it drives others away. Not to mention it wasn’t like that one bit. Miles also wanted to visit Waylon to see if he was doing better and if there was any way to help him. Though he was happy that the Walrider was behaving and also inquiring about Waylon. That is both courteous and admirable on its own terms and in the magnitude of most things.

Miles knew he must go after an hour of researching. He also need some information from Waylon. Also he needed to map out chronologies and genealogies with him. Not to mention investigate what equations were used in the Morphogenic engine and how psychiatrists, mathematicians, sociologists and economists all concurred with such things. Science was actually pretty subjective too. Miles had learned this in his journalism years. Because Mount Massive and Walrider were also evidence of the subjective face of Science and sciences. Miles also decided to backtrack on Wernicke’s life and the false obituaries and testimonies about his death. Why was it necessary to believe that Wernicke had died? So necessary that even the patients had to know? Was that also part of the experiment? Felt like it on many layers. Also who directly and indirectly funded for these researches aside the self-generating blood money of the Murkoff Corporation? That also needed to be analysed and exposed. Miles knew he had look at documents he had collected and notes he had written.

There was also something else. Miles breathed in deeply…he had to…he had to recover his camera from Mount Massive. There were stuff there that needed to be analysed as well. But he knew he couldn’t go there now. Couldn’t and shouldn’t and also wouldn’t. Probably he really could not. Psychologically he wasn’t really prepared. Maybe if Waylon came along…though Waylon needed to be prepared as well. There were portraits of people in the halls who needed to be investigated that much was evident. The truth needed ample iron to be wielded. Possibly more stray documents needed collecting. All these things needed to amassed and carefully as well. No rushing this but no delaying it either.

Then Miles thoughts drifted a bit. Needed to. Reading his notes he suddenly thought about Waylon…

Miles imagined Waylon’s body in repose. The word “repose” in the French, lying down, was different always than sleeping, but a sleeping or a reposed Waylon made it hard for him not to sigh. Waylon looked like a forest of lushness when he was lying down, a dew-soaked morning and his fluttering lashes and slowly moving mouth adventured as creatures waking up or even nocturnal bodies flapping slowly. His chest and abdomen was an ecological system of aesthetics and beautiful tonal strokes. The chest highland low in breathing feels like a lagoon wafting and coexisting with water and the choral of bone and nipples and muscles was surely intriguing. Look at me getting all poetic about a man’s body, Miles chuckled a bit, making Eddie Gluskin look at him with an awkward sort of way but Eddie didn’t comment. It was not like him to comment on much partly because as a killer one time he had developed a sociopath’s interest of well not caring about other people. Other reason he didn’t know how to care or how to ask for things in a way that seemed tenable and feasible enough so he did not know what to do with it. Miles imagined in clean sheets nude with a picture similar to half-sleeping, half-awake and in on itself it was an appetizing feat to all his senses, food for his hormones and sense of beauty, craving a kiss from a satin pores of his skin would not be strange. The kiss may start soft closed mouth but in a minute transfer to crevices and cracks that make the structural dance of tongue and teeth feel like foam and cotton. Thinking about Waylon like this was due to a lot of things. Miles knew that a connection with Waylon was established. It just happened. They synced. And they were willing to keep the fusion flowing. This did not happen with many people who refused to know what coals to put on sparks. Sometimes people think dating and relationships are automatic. That was partly true. You will lead to randomized words and situations. But anything needed work, your own input. He had lost friendships and relationships due to either him not putting effort or them not doing so. Waylon knew how to put effort. But Waylon may be only with a limited friend circle. Miles felt Waylon was sort of man that people would hate out of the corruption of their own selves. Because Waylon was to him intelligent and a good person: moral and a gorgeous empath. Sometimes, to Miles, a gifted person like Waylon would intimidate and overwhelm people who are scarce in their confidence or rather disfigured by the unethical conducts they maintained. Which, as Miles figured as a reporter, where many people unfortunately.

People had a fetish to keep secrets and do really weird things or cultivate habits that were questionable even to the free thinker. They did this for a false sense of comfort in being the superficial unique person. But when it came to even surface gestures or depths that both required idiosyncrasies he knew many people failed. Not that Miles was condescending; he failed too at times when social games was directing him more than a collective energy or an individual apparel. People liked to play games too much. They thought games signify intelligence forgetting that after a game was over or new ones followed they were all stuck in one flat world. A spherical analyses of the world may have been refuted before due to its metaphysical karmic connotations and also of the depth a sphere contains that flatness wouldn’t. Flatness is the inability to develop dimensions. And an orange earth with skin, layers, succulent flesh was a myriad of things and not only a game.  Waylon was a genuinely spherically abled person and to the flat-liners he wouldn’t really be appetizing. People who looked at things one dimensionally would not like or love Waylon Park. They might think he looked handsome or cute and their discussion of him would end there or they would start a gossip-battle on how his quirks and minor eccentricities make him a wholly “bad” person. Humans like that love denying the privilege of being beautiful to even flowers if they aren’t the colour they wanted in. That was a grand selfishness but Miles had seen it even in newsroom and reporter’s desk on how some people did not want to do Haiti stories when it was sports’ week or just talk about some young gymnastic who worked wonders though she had lost a limb because she was Black and not the magazine glossy plastic of the blue-eyed, blonde haired and fair skinned girl. Waylon Park also did not look like the geek archetype. An Adonis was supposed to be stone Waylon was not stone alone he was quite the kinaesthetic entity that could the Walrider a run for his money so there are those things that humans of popular teachings of reductionism could not fathom.

Waylon was a beautiful human being, a beautiful person to him and that made him very _important_ to him. Miles knew that Waylon was unique. As a shared destiny, unknown to him, Waylon thought Miles was unique too. And also a beautiful person. Because Waylon valued people who valued the values of others and also the value of others. And also respected people and their truths and other truths. Miles was sociable but not naïve. As a reported he had sleuthing skills but he was perseverant. It was Miles’s perseverance that made Waylon like him so fundamentally as well. Going through that asylum a bit voluntarily was not something everyone would do. It is true that Miles would have gotten out earlier. On the ride to the lodge he had upsettingly mentioned Father Martin Archimbaud drugging him and taking him somehow to his padded cell. Saying to be a “witness” or whatever. Yet, he wasn’t sure if Martin knew or perceived that the Walrider would possess him as a viable host. This is because the elevator was fixed but it went to the basement levels and Miles had wondered why.  Because that was a very risky move. Miles supposed it was also Wernicke’s doing even if Martin was involved. After all no one really could predict what would happen. Martin wanted him to spread the “gospel” but if he was Walrider inherited it would be hard to do that in a way people could fully receive it. And Miles had told Waylon that maybe Martin could not communicate with the Walrider as well. Walrider made “acts” and did not really talk to other humans all that well. Miles somewhat doubted that Martin could talk to Walrider. Yet, Waylon saw Miles was also perseverant about that. To _know_ what Father Martin _could_ and could _not_ do. To _know_ the history of it. It was, to Waylon, a bit like how Richard Feynman liked solving riddles and puzzles as he talked about it in his autobiography.

Waylon admired Miles’s perseverance. The endurance of his being. Miles admired Waylon’s integrity. The honesty of his being. Both were, as sometimes people were, unaware that they also had those qualities that they admired in the other. And they synced so fluidly and perfectly. 

Not to mention they were willing to work at things. Know each other, weaknesses and strengths. They shared many of those but it true Waylon knew how to address patience and proper inquisitions a bit more than Miles. Miles knew when to be a bit more demanding and a bit cocky. The beauty part was that their relationship till now had really negated a masculine and a feminine too. If this was a classical Eastern movie Miles would be a good long weapon bladesman or pugilist at ease but Waylon had ninjetsu factors and better social skills that would make him a good wanderer nobility. Their androgynies were in sync too.

With Eddie Gluskin something funny had happened. Waylon was in a sense a bit more stereotypically masculine with him and Miles a bit more stereotypically feminine. So, a question Waylon had thought before about if Miles, with his more rugged features of convention, would have been thought of as a good “woman” material for Gluskin. Miles had teased him more in a way that would have been have even looked at in a catty-female way. Whilst Waylon had done the opposite been subtly guarded and reserved. The polarities were interesting yet only would when both Miles and Waylon think on it would they “hmm” or sigh in response. They didn’t know what else to do. The gendered politics made them laugh inside. After all Waylon’ soft nature was not inherently female and this was proven and neither was Miles’s a bit more tough tongue and ways not always inherently male. That was proven too. Yes, they were males, had different ways that expressed that. Yet they defied stereotypes too. And that’s what made them beautiful males.

Thinking about these sorts of things were not always normal to Miles. Not that he didn’t think about them. In such a close way Miles doesn’t remember last when he thought of them aside Yesfir. Miles loved working and compiling but truth was Miles at times hated being a reporter and an investigative journalist. One negative aspect of the job is people really didn’t, mostly, give a damn about others. People used other people as opportunities or opportune moments, factories of research and information — it is what Immanuel Kant actually theorised once about ethics and beauty: people should treat others as ends in themselves and not means to an end. But modern day journalism and many aspects of everyday has tarnished that concept. When thinking about religion Miles also felt that Kierkegaard and Kant had taken this from religion as all Abrahamic religions had wanted man to be treated with the knowledge that he was purpose himself or herself and not instrumental to a purpose. Maybe even secular concepts also wanted that to be a reality. Maybe initial prototypes of capitalism was trying to allow humans a purpose in themselves too that allowed them to work and that “friendly” competition was probably camaraderie. But industrialism and capitalism even communism had a different look on things. The industrialism lifestyle does not really allow camaraderie and doesn’t really allow the scope to know people so well. That’s what Miles felt in his heart.

 Many of his friends had abandoned him for either reasons like he was edgier in execution. Took stories that was controversial like the Afghanistan story which were deemed unpatriotic though he did not feel it was. To him people were the nation and not the nation defines the people as Henry David Thoreau would have easily talked. As in, nation was an amalgamation of many things but he felt people’s wellbeing and not aristocracy’s or hegemonic institutions’ ones should be taken into account. To him people had become a form of consumerism. When he thought about Murkoff’s Mount Massive Asylum he felt that materialise even more because thinking of the Walrider was just that. For him people using “us” and “them” all the time made him sick. It was stupid that just some differences made people paranoid or feel torture and torment is appropriate. For him when he wrote about Alsab, the water monopolising tendencies of Murkoff (as Alsab was a Murkoff’s subsidiary), he was aware that this was wrong. To treat people differently only because they lived elsewhere and looked different. Many of the men and women he met had great ideas and they also communicated well. It is true their English may have been broken but they had a lot of mettle that was not broken. They too had a lot of humanity and the same problems. They also understood family and love. It was pretty rudimentary and barbaric to Miles that people could easily put them as people like “uneducated”, “uncivilised” and “savage” with “rituals” and “beliefs” that made “no sense” just because it made no sense to the “civilised” folk. It was pretty much to him a hacker telling a cracker that they both were not the same species on the grounds they used the computer in dissimilar ways. Miles smiled a bit. Thinking of that made him think of Waylon. Did Waylon had problems with other programmers? Did Waylon face discrimination in many ways? Waylon possessed a lot of antithetical qualities of the stereotypical computer programmer. Waylon had a family when he was younger and he is understanding and he could be creative and outré in ways that only did not conflict to what and who the technocrat or tech guy should be.

_I never like the term “falling in love”, I think it’s falling in love is falling into a cool pond or an generously calm ocean not a ravine or pit and I always felt love is like autonomous you can choose the flowers you want to pick as well as in the person you wanna pick_ , Miles pondered, _Sometimes I think I am falling in love or close to being in love with Waylon. This strong feeling was once there when Yesfir was around. Now with Waylon it is reappearing. I guess…it’s not so bad though right now isn’t a good time. Waylon is not with his family. I don’t know how things are with Lisa and well he has kids. Waylon is a man of integrity and that’s what I always admired and loved about him and I know even if we are attracted to each other Waylon won’t just cheat on anyone so easily and well…it’s good. I know maybe, from what I got, Lisa and he aren’t together anymore. But it’s well…I don’t know what to think. What if Waylon would wanna go back to them? I can’t just tell him no to that. They have shared a lot and maybe being with me in the end isn’t cool either. I am the relic of this nightmare. And Lisa and the kids are well people that are there without it. I envy Lisa though. She got herself a good man. A good person and that’s what matters. I can’t intrude. Though, if I do feel strong enough I will tell Waylon. I won’t tell him to choose I will be okay if he says no too. I would just want him to stay by my side as a friend at times. It is important._

In the mind of Eddie Gluskin sometime somewhat akin but also different happened, _Waylon is someone I need though I have never needed anyone so non-perversely before. I hadn’t learned how to value people aside the perverted way and Waylon is one I am starting to value. But if I can overcome what is needed will Waylon feel the same for me? I know he has a family and honestly Miles and I somewhat are pale in comparison to that. Maybe he wouldn’t mind being friends. Though I wouldn’t mind just having that one kiss with him. Yet I hope that whatever gets over or not we can still be good friends. I have heard there are times when people are incapable of being with others. I hope even Miles stays around._ Eddie looked up a bit innocently, with added some curiosity and some feeling of slight respect _, I don’t think I can really trash-talk him after that conversation. Though we are not the best of allies either I just think he is a good enough person for these things._

In the mind of Miles Upshur thoughts of Eddie Gluskin also ensued, _I never thought I would kiss a guy who is a serial killer let alone talk to him about cities. If Eddie wasn’t genuinely willing to change this conversation would not have happened. Most killers are opportunists that exploit you via seemingly acts of “kindnesses” and “conversations” and try to get stuff from you. However, Eddie did seem interested to know things. It’s too soon to say what will happen. However, if Eddie can try out decent and by God succeed then it would be cool to be friends; as long as I don’t remember his past events too much and know that he is a person who has changed from that. The idea feels incredible enough. But I am open to things even killing him before he kills me. I look both ways of the street that can be crossed. So, I am okay with this. This companionable silence works for us too._

“You smiled a bit, were you thinking about Waylon?”

Eddie suddenly asking him that made him surprised: “Was it that _obvious_?”

“Well, _yeah_ , I mean…” Eddie spoke calmly, “I guess I have only ever seen you happy when you thought about Waylon. You didn’t look this happy when we kissed.”

Miles half-smirked, “True to that.” Then he smirked actually, “Well, our kiss wasn’t really that _explosive_.”

Eddie narrowed his eyes, “I beg to differ.”

“You don’t look like a person who _really_ begs.” Miles looked at him annoyed.

“Well, that’s the thing. I wouldn’t use this type of speech every other place.” Eddie smiled a bit maliciously, a bit angry, “You are just like a woman teasing a man.”

“What the fuck does that supposed to mean?” Before even Eddie can reply Miles went on, “You are a misandrist ass and a misogynist too. I rather be the woman at the end of your tunnel vision than you. You with your repugnant tastes and easy to anger way of doing things. You think I don’t have problems with people? I am a fucking leftist kind of journalist and I have had to work my way into that. I lost a lot friends because of what I do. I still trudge on because I think the truth, as much can be pieced, is so important. And you there killing innocent women of crimes they didn’t commit are you gonna make me say oh the kiss with some punk-ass serial killer was cool because _he_ wants me to say it. No thanks.”

Eddie blinked. Anger gone. Throat dry. Swallowed. Then with a strange pout, “Well, it’s not like I am a slacker.” Eddie then got up from his seat, “I worked too my entire life I didn’t stitch dresses out of my ass!”

“But no one knows you as a dressmaker. Everyone knows you as a serial killer.” Miles pointed out as he looked or a note of his, messy and a bit bloody, evidence from the asylum.

Eddie blinked once more, “True.” Eddie then gave a half-growl, “It’s not like anyone dared to know.”

“Do you know about Curiosity?”

“Well yeah —“

“No. “Miles continued, “Not the trait. The Martian rover.”

“No, I haven’t really heard of it.” Eddie looked quizzical: what was this conversation leading too?

“Well, NASA, advertised it a lot at one point but many people due to lack of interest, or lack of language or something. But will you innately blame people for not knowing about the Martian rover Curiosity?”

“No. I guess not.” Eddie was getting tired of Miles’s ‘rightness streak’ as in getting things _mostly_ if not _completely_ on point.

“Look, no everyone is always also gonna have the curiosity to know you. I know that’s a wrong in _itself_ and own end but this wrong with your wrongs won’t make anyone wiser. You have to sometimes show your good qualities not show off and be skanky or scanty lol but you get what I mean. People won’t always get you. Learning yourself and others is a long process and sometimes a lifetime.”

Eddie looked at Miles, “Dude how old are you?”

“Around thirty-two.”

“I am forty-seven or forty-six and I am not talking like you.” Eddie looked a bit unhappy, “Something is definitely wrong with me.”

“I think age is not always a factor but I do understand what you mean.” Miles sighed, “You haven’t really have had a life to be really mature in. It’s understandable I guess.”

“I guess you are more than understandable on my accounts.”  Eddie looked on, a slight hesitation, a choosing of words in his head, “I hadn’t known…that…” Miles stared at Eddie to finish. The pause not peremptory but it was something that made them feel wavelengths away from each other. Attempting to reach a point of magnetic cohesion. “I hadn’t known journalists and reporters could be so understanding.”

Miles raised a brow, “I think journalists and reporters are _supposed_ to be understanding.”

“Well, a dressmaker is _not_ supposed to be a killer but I am so, there are these contradictions.” Eddie shrugged.

“True to that too.” Miles looked on, “The kiss wasn’t explosive in the _regular_ way. It was in its _own_ way I guess. I mean I felt it was kinda infantile, I mean it felt like it was on who’s got the stiffer prick. I mean I just didn’t expect us to become so _engrossed_ by it that’s all you know? I mean, I didn’t expect to communicate feelings so well in a short span of time. And then you said it was like cheating on Waylon. I didn’t feel it was like that.”

“I guess the circumstances is such that well we don’t have the other circumstances to do anything else. We have tried physical violence and it resulted in too many offenses and then now we are a bit sexually violent but you are not like that and I am not really into that shit anymore. I mean the kiss was a bit violent. But then we just got out of that narrow tunnel didn’t we? I don’t think we have much to be violent about. Even if we started kissing for mutual hatred; we have already talked as people I guess something inside of me cannot compartmentalise you as a killer would. It’s _nothing_ to do with your _gender_. I guess it’s just _you_ and _us_ and _me_. The _me_ of now doesn’t want any of that crap bullshit.”

“I guess sometimes it’s okay to have limited choices.” Miles started after Eddie’s confessions, “I mean if I had the freer reign of before I could have stayed away from you and you would have stayed away from me or rather hurt me. Sometimes some restrictions are good. There should be no excesses. I am kinda happy that Father Martin didn’t let me leave. I wouldn’t have figured out much and I might have most probably missed Waylon and the opportunity to help him from that white collar insect. I am happy in a way with how things have turned out.”

“I once did not understand what the fuck the Walrider was but I claimed I could hear it…” Eddie snorted angrily, “Fuck, what a bullshit I was. I mean I thought I could charm my way out of this. Funny, how I hate women but I have adopted some ‘feminine wiles’ techniques. How pathetic. But it wasn’t like that…” Eddie became saddened, and Miles looked on softly, “I mean being charming has its own consequences and I was given a taste of my own medicine. Being strapped to that machine was a nightmare. I don’t ever want to go through that again.” Eddie’s hands shook. “It was like revisiting some fucking fucked up memories. I think your Wallie knows what happened to me and…I don’t know how I feel about it…I know many people know now but I feel angry that they do. They know but it’s not they care or they can do anything about. And I really don’t wanna go through engines like that again.”

Miles instinctively went and got Eddie’s hands. They were shaking too much. They were large hands. Larger than his. Eddie looked at Miles’s fingers. “That looks painful.” Eddie soothingly caressed them felling a snag of bone on some angles. It looked really solemn the scene of trembling hands soothing the one with missing fingers. Yet, human compassion could be quite amazing. Miles smiled a bit unhappily, “It _was_ really painful. I almost blacked out.” Miles then looked him more intently, “But I guess I got over it a bit. I mean with a Walrider nearby can’t really always focused on the fingers. Though…I miss them.  I do sometimes feel rage and tears at them. I guess that’s normal.”

“It’s not normal to lose them too. In a painful way. They belong to you. They won’t ever belong to anyone else.” Eddie hands stopped trembling a bit, “Just know that okay.”

Miles thought it was more than kind for Eddie to say that. Especially, when he was once such a fuck who degraded the human body in a far worse way. “Thanks, I am happy to know that.” Without a second thought, Miles slowly, without tongue, chastely kissed Eddie on the lips. A short linger. A brush brief but not without intensity. And looked at Eddie. Whose mouth slightly opened. Eddie dipped down and kissed him back but also with no mouths open.

“I…” Eddie blushed, he was a bit flushed, “I just…feel lonesome…” This was true. Their attraction was also a limited choice. Unlike sparks and also meadows with Waylon, Miles and Eddie felt nothing that visceral nor passionate nor romantic with each other. But they both felt lonely.  

“Me too.” Miles admitted. But it hurt. Miles yearned for something sexual with someone. Because of loneliness. Though he knew this wasn’t the right thing. Because there was no true core attraction. However, there was a start of a strange, misshapen, ball of cells-like respect. And Miles also had to admit that it felt personal and true.

Now their mouths opened. Their tongues made a soft twirl in each other. Then danced a bit more sternly. Eyes open. A smile tugging on each other’s faces. Then eyes closed. Opened again. In tune with the tongue. But Eddie was titillated. For mutual kisses and hugs hardly ever came. There was something so beautiful in actual want, actual compliance; actual response without coercion. Though it was just a bit sexual Eddie felt this was a promise or a beginning to making love. And such reciprocal mouth-courtship was not known to him so earnestly before.

As the kiss ended Eddie blushed, “I thought Waylon would teach me of kisses and all.” Then with embarrassment, “Loneliness or not I felt that was a lesson.”

“Well, Waylon is your interest so his kisses will teach you more than anything I could ever do.” Miles felt a jab as he said this, his heart pined for Waylon and truth be told the only reason he said this was because it was truth. Waylon was the truer flame to Eddie. And Miles hated that they were competing in a way but he couldn’t deny Eddie this truth. Though they both knew in their hearts that each wished the other was Waylon Park. Though, Eddie had already confessed a lot. Miles was still tethering on something. Walrider or not Miles was a bit reserved, a bit uncertain. Waylon’s family and many things came up. Eddie and he were cutting tension, time and boredom. They were pitying the other in a way but being genuinely compassionate. With Waylon it had to be passionate and the come could arrive freely.

Yet Eddie was a bit aroused. Poor souls feeling lonely: Eddie stroked the front of Miles’s jeans a bit clumsily. A bit hesitantly. Miles sighed and looked. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. Unzipping the pants there was a moment of stroking. Eddie was a bit rough at first and seeing Miles bit his lip and growl out a snap made him realise he needed lessons in gentleness. After all fabrics need tact nor else they tear. Also, Miles tugged hard Eddie’s penis. As a warning that roughness can be replayed by his hands too. Then after that Eddie growled angry. They both stared at each grumpily. Before smiling. Chuckling. And then decided on a rhythm. Quick but jolting. Close yet not altogether intimate. Racy, sexual but not over the precipice and into the clouds-flying sensual. They both were doing this to feel a lack of pressure. They couldn’t be polite as the Twins. They couldn’t violent as mating animals. The only possible route left which wasn’t so damn complicated was the loose and sexual that mattered not. But Miles knew that they had some respect for the other and that is why this was being done. It seemed they had to look at each other sexually now because power has already been displayed and it did not surmount to much. However, sexuality wasn’t doing much either. Miles in imaging Waylon felt something raw and emotional. With Eddie this was just a play-off, mutual masturbation was just warding off loneliness. Eddie knew it too.

Unfortunately, Waylon didn’t know it. So, when he put a soft knock on an ajar door (which those two didn’t notice) and the force creaked it a bit more; well, he was more than surprised to see Miles and Eddie kissing. A bit passionately like. It was such a shock but he couldn’t look away. Yet he stayed in the shadows. Only illustrated a form in a pixelated light and darkness. He let go of the relaxed hand he put on the doorknob. He felt a bit sick. He felt a bit _betrayed_. Even if the word betrayal felt controversial.

Yet the question was who was he betrayed by? Eddie or Miles? Or both…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why but I actually think Miles and Eddie would be a good enough couple though maybe not so much in this fic. I just want them to probably do something but it won't have so much romantic feelings involved. It would be complicated like that. I wanted to explore that to be honest. But I guess I left with a good cliffhanger. How does Waylon react to this? Maybe very selfishly but I think we all are at times. Also, I want to see what the other characters would do too. I do plan on making The Twins do relationship things because despite having strange looks they are human and should be able to do human things. Just because we do not personally take them on a sexual dimension or something shouldn't be that their sexuality be censored or erased I feel. That is the same feeling I have with the Walrider/Walriders. I know this might make some people uncomfortable so I really want to assuage you guys' feelings though I need to write what I need to write and I feel that we all can mutually respect one another's feelings as they are not aimed to hurt and are not so culturally sensitive I believe. Also relationship things does not only revolve around the sexual. I want The Twins to well also have friendships with many sexes and genders and probably establish what they want. I feel that in the asylum they were also denied a lot of autonomy and I think in life in general they were as well. At the moment I want them to also get into a philosophical spat with Wallie because I want them to say that Wallie has it better than them and Wallie should be grateful and I want a debate to spark. So yeah ideas on there. I also think, should I somehow include Frank Maneira? I want to actually. Maybe I should :P XD
> 
> So, tell me guys what you think :)


	18. Research & Realisations + a start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter you can say is an anticipated one in its own right. Though it may not totally begin what needs a beginning but it is a start, a beginning in its own right. So, I am happy to present this short yet much needed chapter...

 

  **Research & Realisations + a start**

 

After seeing, what he already felt he had seen too much, Waylon just decided to go back to his room. This was a kind of an emotional betrayal or some kind of betrayal and the comical part was he also felt it was a betrayal also him to himself.   _Maybe, I was thinking a bit self-centredly, I also was feeling really happy that well…that so many people thought I was reliable and good. I was almost smitten to my own good image by them. I am just an ordinary person among people who are more extreme and intense and I had no right to think I would be so easily liked and, or accepted. I was thinking limitedly, stupidly, I was going back to the if-then statements that Lisa told me not to always do, not always think a+b=c. I am a fool. I should not have been so easily foolish or fooled. Yet, what am I fooled by? I say myself because I do not think it would be fair to blame them for something I didn’t really catch…Though I thought Eddie liked **me**! **Not** Miles! And Miles also seemed to have…taken…an interest in me…What the fuck happened?! Dammit! I feel like some discarded high school nerd again! Fuck, maybe I was really happy to a certain extent to be liked by others. Especially a guy like Miles. I certainly did not hide it so much! I am acting like an idiot…I know I am. Worse is I am acting like some teen but I think I always wanted some kind of recognition. Lisa said that one of my problems was subtlety. Fuck, man, she is so **right**. I had to be subtle about some of these things too! I don’t know what I feel for Miles but…fuck, subconsciously, maybe I felt a claim towards him as in, I thought it was mutually felt. And it was kinda cool that Eddie relied on me. I liked being there for people. If it helps others. And yes, it’s not ostentatious, and it also makes me feel good about myself. Though I know that’s not totally right **all** the time. Okay, if Miles and Eddie find to be attracted and happy I can’t really change that or hurt that. But, but I feel really precluded from things. Aside the attraction, what else can I do? Okay, that was stupid. I studied mathematics and I love programming. Also, I need to research. I guess…for once…I also wanted to be the attractive guy like Miles. I know that’s a bit stupid wish but…I guess…oh well, I am feeling lonely and I don’t know how is it to be liked by someone anymore, much at least._

Waylon calmed himself. There was no reason to overthink things. Nor was there any reason for an invitation, an expectation. This wasn’t romance fiction — this was important business of life and lives. He needed to think more assertively on things that he needed to do. Waylon suddenly, got a bit ashamed. Perhaps, he was acting like a total douche? Well, the poor guy thought that. If Eddie had initiated anything sexual at this point Waylon would have probably cleaved his balls. And if Miles did…well, he wouldn’t know how to reciprocate. At times he could get sexually aggressive yet at the first bouts of courtship there were times he could smirk and carry on. Other times he would be the leaky balloon, making squeamish noises and faltering. When he had seen them, or caught them in what seemed to be a personal moment, both of them undulated with voracious sexual energy that it was made palpable so distinctly even to him neatly near a small-creak of a door. Presumably, this may have started a bit from some time ago but they were then matched up pretty pitch perfect in their jerking off each other and he didn’t know how he would respond to that if it him amongst them or as one of them. Waylon felt he also slightly envied the intensity that they had shared in that moment, what he didn’t understand that he had shared the same intensity with them both, individually, without much sexuality involved. And that is at times a rare gift of a talent in individuals. Waylon felt a bit sexually frustrated himself, probably because the love of a body or from a body, without perversion and much understanding, could make any situation seem less chaotic and tragic. At least for most situations it did. Nevertheless, Waylon was a disciplined man when it came to being patient and tolerant so he didn’t want to rush into anything erogenous. Though his own patience annoyed and exhausted him at times it hadn’t really failed him in larger schemas of the tuning fork of his existence so he assiduously stuck to it.

Waylon reflected for a while on his own. Then he, by some automotive design of the will, went into the other small study and decided to use the computer. There he switched on the Mac desktop and the firewalled web came to life after a few clicks. Using first google as an initial database he typed in Scandinavian mythology. This was after he read a few wiki articles on the Walrider. The Walrider was a many manifested creature from Norse mythology. Wanting to understand a bit better on the foundations of such a mythology he decided to look into some of the chief resources and wikis allocated to them. Two primary source texts were shown: One of _Poetic Edda_ and the other _Prose Edda_. The _Prose Edda_ came after the _Poetic Edda_ but Waylon decided to get a feel of things this time non-chronologically. It was not truly a prudent idea. The _Prose Edda_ was written in an another way and from what he gleaned a bit from prior knowledge is that the first book of this mythological remnant, The _Gylfaginning_   or “The tricking/deception of Gylf” happened to give some accounts of what seemed to be Valhalla, the paradise of the Nordic warriors. Or rather, the place though an illusion, seemed to mimic the festivities in Valhalla. The fact that the book starts with this facet shows how important both warriorhood and paradise for such deeds is an important aspect of Nordic ideologies.

Reading from basic Wikipedia he gleaned also that the prosaic Edda had a very euhemeristic reading of myths which is also the most important part of this Nordic tome-relic. Euhemerism is actually a significant way of studying myth; it is believed that myth may be some exaggeration or mitigation of real facts. Waylon found that The Prose Edda’s collection of myths and its compilation by a respectful Christian as such was important. The man thought scholarship was integral and so was the study of poetry. The Prose Edda’s second part or book was all about lists of poetic license in words. Reading Wikipedia was not so bad to accompany his reading of the actual text. Waylon was not a scholar in these classics and he needed to understand the basics. Yet when he was reading from the source about Ymir the Rime-Giant he was pretty much giggling at the part where Ymir’s one foot apparently mated with the other foot to get something. Foot fetish didn’t really cover that as Waylon thought. What really piqued his interest is that Gylf’s challenge was that he had to prove he was a wise person by asking a good amount of questions. The nature of curiosity, it felt to Waylon, was being examined here. It is a Scandinavian ontological and epistemological parable or debate it seemed to him because to the three rulers or illusive rulers of that Valhalla type place the wiser the man, it felt, he wasn’t sure, the better and greater the questions. This really fascinated him and he made a note on these.

If the first part of the book asks questions by the chief person than the second is an execution or journey or collecting another kind of answers. It is a dialogue between a sea god and the god of poetry. Waylon found this summary of the second book, that he wikied but made his own conclusions on, very interesting. He noted that he needed to go back to the source text as well. From the text he learned about the sea god Aegir and the poetry god Bragi who sat down together during a great feast with all other important representatives and mead drinks. They were actually making a lexicon sort of collection but as with classics there is prehistory with the kidnapping of Idunn and then Skadi, a battle warrior, going off to avenge her father but choosing diplomatic reconciliation (though some of the terms seemed questionable to Waylon he knew that myths did have some sexism). And how Skadi’s father’s eyes were then made into two stars in the sky.  Waylon was impressed on how conversation of these things lead to compiling metaphorical and non-metaphorical speech that poetry could be written in yet he understood that as poetry involves many elements of both ordinary and epic things the story they recounted of Idunn’s abduction and freedom, and what had brought about it first place was food enough to think about poetry and poetic license.

Well, the story also contrasted two birds: the eagle and the hawk. The Hawk is sharp and fast whilst the Eagle is strong and durable. Like direct speech and metaphor it seems the success of a poem may have something to do with how to execute sharpness and when to use strong words. At first the eagle wins on account of durability and strength but then later on he loses because he applies too much strength and the hawk wins for sharpness. Also how Idunn was lured out by Loki to be a giant’s abductee had pretty much made Waylon nostalgic about Poe’s short story The Cask of Amontillado. Waylon was also interested to know more about Idunn and her apples though it seemed for some reason apple became the symbol of forbidden fruits in many places. Waylon construed that it could be the red colour and that the biblical forbidden fruit may not have been the apple at all. Though it seemed Idunn was the only one who possessed these apples and that her going missing was a big deal. Could the apples have been a form of ambrosia to the Aesir clan of gods? Well, then it was pretty interesting how Idunn seemed to keep them and know about them.

Oh, it seemed in some places Loki and Thor contrasted each other well too. Loki all cleverness like a hawk made his store miserable. Well, Thor may be celebrated but he was no Odin. Due to his impulsive nature and his strength he had a certain imperviousness to thinking things through. So, his strength was not always a good thing. It made him an awful tactician and easily seduced by the talk of warfare and battles which was not the ability and acumen of a good enough ruler. It seemed to Waylon that Ragnarok was the misfortunes of both Loki and Thor who embodied two extremes as well. It seemed that Loki survives Ragnarok but that perhaps his story is changed by it and he endures as a storyteller or historian of the old Nose gods. It is probably due to this change in fate that Loki endures and Thor doesn’t. It also seems that Thor, if he cannot change his title, cannot do nothing but be happy in Valhalla. Waylon is interested by Loki due to his ability to survive past Ragnarok. And also his ability and fate to have different dispositions. Maybe because Thor was constant in a job was he appealing but Waylon liked constancy with some changes though he wasn’t really all for Loki either as Loki messed things up a bit too much too.

The third book of the Prose Edda was Hattatal and that comprised many poems by Snorri Sturluson, the Christian man who compiled the Prose Edda.  This third book was poems written in the metre used by poets of the Nordic tradition though Snorri admitted to making some deviations of his own. Possibly, he lacked some information some places to fully adopt the work in a tradition fully consistent (he hadn’t touched the source text yet and only wikied stuff till now). Nevertheless, Waylon found this admittance to be important and Hattatal to be important too because it felt the culmination of the acts that had been surmised in both Gylfaginning andSkáldskaparmál, the first and second books respectively. That Gylf got knowledge in the first book and then the gods Bragi and Aegir compiled the aesthetics which were now interpreted in a way in the third book. Waylon also found it interesting how Snorri decided that it was up to a mortal-like man to prove his wisdom and gain more wisdom and knowledge whereas two gods at a feast discussed everyday trials of gods and also decided on aesthetics and decided on making some standards for such aesthetics.

This to Waylon showed that the work had Snorri’s human finesse or rather limitations as well for Snorri felt that man learns wisdom and something higher, something non-human, decide aesthetical or rather grammar to use the speech. It made sense but it also would have been interesting if the conversations were different too. And that was somewhat put there because Gylf was conversing with non-humans with periphrastic type names (High, Just-as-High and Third — all metaphorical figures of speech and also seems like the grammatical superlatives akin to “good”, “better” and “best”), And how knowledge of many giants and Thor and Loki made also possible the understanding of aesthetics. It is like the trial and tribulations of them both forged a good deal of metaphors and non-metaphors in poetic language. Now Snorri compiles poems also understanding them. It felt somewhat like a full circle, a beginning (Gylfaginning also sounds like that), a middle and an end. So Prose Edda has a lot of structure in them as well. As a classical work it was excellent. After all structures and anti-structures could be very inviting and beautiful if there purposes are pretty distinct and have a lot of dimensions.

Norse and German folklore with Teutonic and English myths have a lot of similarities so he decided to read a bit on Nordic and Germanic mythologies and folklores first. The surface dissection of the Prose Edda was important as he had gotten somewhat of a feel, even via slight source text reading and more wiki reading, what these myths may hold dear and integral to. It was very nice to know that Loki and Thor pretty much dominated as the rough versions of Id and Superego of the Prose Edda with Snorri being a sort of Ego amongst them. When he googled Walrider he got affiliations with Alp, Kobold and many other names which help personify the Skáldskaparmál a lot for Waylon because the many different manifestations of the Walrider had many different names and forms alongside purposes. The Kobold, a German sprite, interested him because this sprite had a close relationship with the humans it lived with and interacted with which also indicated something of their own Walrider.

Waylon stretched his hand and looked at his notes. There was much to read yet and he needed more reference books to help illuminate what he needed to learn from both the Eddas and needed to write about Sagas too. He had read some of the Prose Edda yet it was a long work and would need more concentration and annotations. There was also the Poetic Edda to be read. Then he needed to research more on the foundations of the mythology of the Walrider. Something analogous came to mind — when Walrider was cunningly eluding people he was static-hawk and when he was hurting living creatures or humans he was as impulsive yet monstrously strong as an eagle too. It would be good he could supersede Gylf and maybe even Bragi and Aegir. Supersede Snorri and have his own Hattatal. Though he found out later on that Loki pretty much was compared to Prometheus at times, his name means “fire” and that he can live after Ragnarok because of a trick he performed but this also killed Baldur, a favourite god in the world of the Nordic gods. Yet, at this moment, it was not understandable why Loki did deceptively kill Baldur. Probably, Loki did not understand the importance given to Baldur. Also Loki didn’t think that Baldur deserved such attention. Though it was cruel to kill Baldur deceptively it was also somewhat strange that to prevent Ragnarok Baldur was so stressed. And also Waylon felt that a mistletoe aimed by a blind god, brother of Baldur, Hod, was also pretty much another way to look at Cupid in his books. Perhaps, it was Loki’s way of mismanaging love or rather how love could be mismanaged if it was blind enough not to question things. The psychology of these gods fascinated Waylon into a small reverie. For about twenty more minutes. Waylon also learned that Loki may not live long after Ragnarok as Heimdall does kill him eventually.

Waylon had to wake up; he was getting tired. Studying and making all these notes and thinking was making him finally pretty drowsy. And the fever had not fully abated. Now hunger flew out from his gut and punched him. Seeing the clock made him realise that he had been deep in this study for about four hours and 28 minutes. Waylon stretched his limbs again. They trembled a lot, twitched at his muscles, he could be the fine print of bone and vein and the flux of blood and oxygen mottle, wane and feel circulated again. His head has started hurting a bit. In front of him a few globs of Rorschach flew out. It bugged his eyes and made a strange static noise. Though it seems they changed a bit too. _Dammit, that fucking wound,_ Waylon clutched at his head, _was hoping not to see those strange images anymore_. Waylon almost tripped and realised he needed to eat and rest.

As he opened the door his eyes got a bit foggy and he ended up resting up against Miles, who caught him instinctively and alertly, “Wow, Waylon!” Then he embraced him pretty tightly. Waylon almost pushed away. Yet he wasn’t know if it was shyness or anger or just feeling he shouldn’t get in between him and the other person. A part of him wondered what Eddie was doing. Yet Miles seemed to grab on a bit more tightly, “Hey, what gives? Don’t push me away! I am not attacking you!”

“I know.” Waylon said, a bit definitively, a bit distantly, “I am sorry.” Now a bit closely, looking at Miles’s blue eyes, so like water he could drink, not knowing Miles saw his grey ones as rain he wanted as marrow-blood circuit, “I…think…I am just tired…I overdid my study…”

“Your study?” Miles was confused, “I seriously thought you came to this room to relax and see the view!” Miles looked on, “I am not saying you can’t read but…aren’t you having a fever? Should you be…” Then realising, “How _long_ have you been _studying_? _What_ have you been…studying…?” Seeing the notes, and the open desktop, books on the desk and in a stack,  and the multiple tabs made Miles wince.

“About four hours. I researched a bit on Walrider and mythology like the Norse one. I need to know what sort of backdrop and histories these things entail. I know this may come in handy in also investigating the preternatural elements in the Murkoff Corporation investigation.” Waylon rubbed his eyes and nose, shook his head and yawned a bit, then he smiled, “You understand that this could be quite crucial in the long run?”

Miles looked displeased and then softly grabbed him, “You idiot. Can’t you just convalesce a bit peacefully before you jump into these things?”

Waylon got a bit mad, thinking on how Miles easily flung himself on Eddie, stroking dicks and locking lips pervaded his memory and imagination, making him snap, “Why the hell should I just sit around and do nothing?! I am a programmer not some hacked up brain-dead patient from Mount Massive!” Waylon didn’t imply The Twins or Eddie yet he did remember seeing those almost dead cut up people who were not successful at being Variants or even human beings anymore, “I need to do things Miles! I need to keep my sanity and identity in check! I can’t just do nothing! I am not an idiot okay!”

Miles relaxed his hands a bit on Waylon’s shoulders, a bit shocked at the outburst, his mouth a bit ajar, before he quietly said, “Easy Waylon…I am just trying to look out for you…”

Waylon saw the softness of Miles’s eyes and felt shame. And a dizziness. He fell again on Miles who grabbed him expertly, “I am so sorry…I just am…”

“Waylon, you look hungry and tired.” Miles slowly stroked his head. It was pretty affectionate, the gesture easily locked in both their minds. Waylon close to Miles’s neck and feeling his finger vibrate with his hair and Miles almost breathing become raspy and full of tiny sighs. Like picking through small cartilage in fish the sighs underlapped with his stroking of hair. An expert nature of the fingers. Miles may have been missing some but his bones and muscles knew what to do. Waylon breathed in that husky smell and felt Miles also swoop up a breath of his hair and him. This felt wrong and Waylon felt he was making Miles cheat. So he touched his shoulders and looked up and he felt the mode to be electric. In his muscles there was an erotic tingle. Their eyes locked again and instantly it was rain and ocean all swirling in warm communication.

“It’s okay.” Waylon muttered.

“It’s not.”  Miles was definite.

“But it is. Hard work reaps rewards.” Waylon was definite also.

“So does _carelessness_.” Miles made persistence.

“I was gonna have a rest now. I have you know. I am just, well, tired of doing nothing.” Waylon was adamant too.

“After all that happened I think we can cut ‘have done nothing’ out of our professional and emotional resumes.” Miles sighed, “It would be pretty perverse not to include that.”

“A shyness, that is criminally vulgar?” Waylon and Miles were still holding each other’s shoulders, no one disengaged; no one really consciously thought that was really needed, “Right?”

“The Smiths or Tatu’s version of the song?” Miles grinned a bit, “I think How Soon is Not Now instead of Now should be the song we sing.”

They both laughed a bit. The tension dissipating, “I am sorry.” Waylon let go first making a breath get stuck like a bad wishbone on Miles’s throat, “I should not have screamed at you.”

Miles observed that Waylon was almost looking away from him, “Waylon…” so softly it was tickle on the other’s spine, so cotton-soft, “Are you okay?” Then slowly, this time, Miles got his hands on Waylon’s hands, lifting them up, caressing the knuckles, paying nice angles at his fingers, looking at him intently. It seems Miles liked touching Waylon’s hands and having his hands in his.

Yet Waylon quickly got his hands away. Remembering how Miles and Eddie touched hands, “No, I am totally okay. Just tired.”

Miles looked really sad all of a sudden, “Tired of me too?”

“I never said that.” Waylon uttered.

“You are almost going away from me. Look, I am sorry too. I don’t think I am particularly responsible from keeping you away from your life and your family. It’s not fair to pin that on me.” Miles looked really upset.

“I never said that!” Waylon saw Miles’s face and his voice got a bit soft, “I am not implying that either. I am just…” Waylon got quiet, “I mean, I just…I don’t want Eddie to think you are…we are…I mean…flirting…I mean…”

Miles looked a bit shocked, “Why would…I mean why would Eddie think we are _something_? Why would it _matter_?”

“You are dating him or something right. I saw you guys kiss and well touch each other intimately.” Waylon blurted out, “I didn’t mean to see so don’t worry. Yet, I mean Eddie is still new I think in having a proper relationship and I think he might misconstrue what we do. And I can’t have you guys fighting either. It’s bad you know for you guys individually too.”

“Oh.” Miles suddenly snapped, “Maybe you can date Eddie Gluskin if you are so worried about what he thinks.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Waylon was mad now, “I didn’t mean to intrude on you guys it was an honest mistake. And I am just saying this for the benefit of you.”

They both stared at each other a bit vehemently. A storm now in their eyes. Then both Waylon and Miles calmed down. Miles looked down. So, did Waylon. A quiet ensued. “I am not dating Eddie. I just wanted something sexual. So did he. We both just got into it circumstantially. It isn’t romantic or anything. And I don’t plan to make it a habit. Neither does he. But I am sorry if we upset you.”

“No, No…” Waylon looked up, “I mean you guys are consenting adults…”

“But you looked upset.” Miles has caught on, “Did you think we were abandoning you…?” Miles didn’t know why he said it. But he really hoped that was the reason.

Waylon looked surprised. Then quietly meeting Miles’s eyes, “I am not special as you guys.” Waylon felt himself clench his fist, “I don’t know how valuable I am to begin with.” Then felt himself tremble, “I think I feel a bit left out. I know it’s kiddish and I sincerely am sorry for that. I just don’t know why I thought like that. It’s unfair. But I can’t help it so I am sorry.”

Miles didn’t hesitate. Grabbing Waylon and taking him inside. The embrace was too charged. Miles nestled himself inside Waylon’s neck to the surprise of the beautiful intellectual. Breathing a bit too hurriedly. Nostrils somewhat flaring. Waylon’s breathing quickened too. He nestled in Miles forehead and hair too. Breathing in deep. Without hesitation Waylon stroked and grabbed Miles’s right hip and caressed his neck with his fingers making Miles moan inside his neck with free abandon and bury himself more there. Waylon trailed his nose on Miles’s forehead. Waylon felt a half-formed erection in his pants. Miles was already there, hard and completely giving. Miles was a bit limp now in Waylon’s arms and Waylon held him strongly. Caressed his face. Their noses touched. But then they looked in deep. Both could not bring the other or themselves to kiss. It was as if they needed something a bit more. That is when Waylon realised that he might mean a lot to Miles and Miles realised the same. They each wanted something to full perfect. They lingered for a moment. Then slowly. No tongue. No teeth.

Just lips.

Softly brushed each other. So innocent yet so strong and powerful. Miles and Waylon now equally weighed on the other. A second chaste kiss. Then Waylon nibbled on Miles’s neck and Miles nibbled Waylon’s longer nose. Then they just hugged each other. Nuzzling the other really erotically in the embrace. Very passionately. “I don’t know what will change. At this moment, during these times, I don’t wanna live without you.” Miles whispered.

“I don’t wanna live without you either. I need you to complete this. I need you now.” Waylon whispered back. Their confessions were hot and humid, calm and pleasant. An equinox of two seasons. It was a beginning of a love. Maybe romantic and sexual. Maybe a deep friendship. Or both. Yet at this time they did not wish to rush into the word love. Love had so many dimensions and responsibilities. Which neither wanted to do only half-full or hurt the other. Neither wanted that the other should feel the other lacking. Neither wanted to feel this was just a fugitive fling.

“When we are ready.” Miles smiled so brightly, so happily, “I want both of us to say it, gesture it, body language and all language and all. I want us to fill it in so completely that when we go beyond it we feel that we don’t need any other thing.”

“So, this is a prologue then.” Waylon smiled with a beautiful radiance.

“You have been reading too much…” Miles gave a short giggle, “Though, I can’t really say that’s a bad thing.’

Waylon touched Miles’s forehead again, “You had a bit of a fever too, didn’t you?”

“Who knew that illness could also lead to a liberation of sorts?” Miles laughed a bit, “I guess I worked too much too. Don’t mind but I perused some of the documents you also collected from Mount Massive. Maybe I wasn’t completely ready for that mental work either.” Miles happily embraced Waylon, “But if we have a fever together I would love being a manageable sick with you. So I can recuperate with you.”

“Sure.”  Waylon laughed, “Being all teenage girl about this is so cheesy.” 

“Yeah, but it isn’t so bad.” Miles smirked.

“Never said it was.” Waylon touched Miles’s cheek affectionately, “You know when I read your articles I loved them, I loved how dedicated you are, I saw your picture and thought he is handsome. No real thoughts like this came. Yet, I never thought we would end up this close. And have so many feelings like this.”  Waylon caressed Miles’s face, “But I am so happily surprised.”

“I never thought one anonymous email would lead to so many things. And I didn’t know the person who send it to me…” Miles ruffled Waylon’s hair and face, “Was so beautiful, intelligent, genius-like, empathetic and also so genuinely dedicated. I am so glad you send that mail to me.”

“I am a bit confused.” Waylon rustled Miles’s hair, “What are…I mean what should we do now?” Waylon smiled, “I don’t think I am completely, or we are completely…I mean to commit…I guess you can fool around with Eddie…I mean…maybe not…I mean don’t also hurt his feelings…”

“If you fool around with Eddie I wouldn’t be mad either…you know he likes you much more than he will ever even consider liking me. Your heart is too powerful and it attracts him. Though…I mean, at this moment, he needs to work a bit more to have the capacity to contain it…and receive it…” Miles laughed a bit as he said this.

“I didn’t expect you to talk so concentrated on a topic like this.” Waylon half-grinned, “I love it when you are talking about your emotions.” Waylon smiled very brightly which touched Miles. Miles had to admit that maybe even Yesfir didn’t say it to him like this, or perhaps she did but at the time he couldn’t be matured enough to be alerted the scope and range of this. To see someone notice these things, take pride in them as if it were his own accomplishments or just pride in that they were discovered by the person who owned them, Miles realised people needed people like Waylon Park. The world needed them. He needed him. “Though…” Waylon muttered out a bit sheepishly, “I can’t really do stuff like that with Eddie even if I wanted to without him knowing what he is getting himself into.”

Miles hugged Waylon a bit more then, “Always caring about others.” Slowly he kissed his ear, “Don’t forget about yourself beautiful.”

Waylon blushed. To be called beautiful by a beautiful man, “Uh…I am just a nerd…” Waylon gave a small giggle nervously.

“A nerd who puts me up on Cloud 9 so easily and makes me orbit it and back? Do you really need my opinions to validate your beauty? Your wife probably kissed your eyes goodnight and your children may have said you were good looking. And I don’t think people who live with you like that can easily lie so much.” Miles nuzzled on Waylon’s chestnut hair, “But if you like hearing some compliments let’s just say you are the Nutella to my hot coco.”

“Yeah. I sometimes do like hearing compliments about myself. I hardly get them. Hell sometimes I instigate a situation to get them” Waylon laughed a bit, “A healthier choice would be you are the ice tea to my salad. Either state works.”

“I find that erotic, who said green teas can’t get you hot.” Miles had to admit this flirting was so organic that he felt like he was swimming in a salad that he loved with an assorted beef stew, funny how food can fill so many sensuous gaps and perfectly well too, in a romantic way. He endearing thought him and Waylon cooking and fixing sandwiches, with him kissing Waylon’s cheeks and seeing him smile, God, he was a nerd-Adonis when he smiled, fuck, it was like Apollo did Eros and they sired Waylon Park, well, he felt that at times, there was no way to put it (and, he didn’t really put into question if Apollo and Eros were related in any way to make his comment incestuous and the mythological gods were too free-reigning during sex that they forgot pertinent questions to ask. Sometimes he thought of them and STDs).

Waylon smiled. He felt his fever half-cured with flirting and conversing so nicely with Miles. Probably, it didn’t need an artificial effort. Its efforts were tangible with something foundational. Waylon hadn’t felt this in a while so in sync with someone. So, he perfectly enjoyed it. No matter if it just ended up as a friendship with slightly amorous beginnings he would really be happy knowing Miles after all this. Something told him he would survive. He would **live** after this. A life a bit unfettered, with the nightmares but also new dreams and new possibilities. And he didn’t want Miles not being there — he wanted Miles to be there in all capacity. He wanted Miles to be there, to talk to, and to know if he went back being a journalist, or what he now loved doing as well. Miles would certainly be one of his lifelong friends. And he appreciated that God gave him someone like that. In life loneliness seemed to become mandatory for the unsullied heart. The heart that craved selfishness and the destruction of others easily coped; hell, it even departed from loneliness as it used people as instruments. The chaste as Waylon travelled a pilgrimage of much censure and much approbation. It is those few rare gems that could easily know other rare gems. Ironically, society now ousted the “good shepherd” or the people who wanted to just care about others. It may use a moralistic cloak but in the end people usually side with winners who are less than any painted moralistic picture. Thinking of a few Murkoff employees made Waylon understand how selfish and greedy people could be.

“I don’t think I can see you doing anything besides journalism Miles.” Waylon offered, genuinely if so randomly, “I know you have many talents I am not limiting you. I just feel that is your vocation. Your calling. It isn’t just professionalism and profession to you. I think even when we survive this, live after this, you will be uncovering other truths.”

Miles looked slightly surprised, “And you really think we can live both as in not die or fuck up after this?” Miles smiled slightly, “I am a bit surprised by your belief in this.”

“I have never really thought much about God beyond the realm of aesthetics. But this time I feel that this is too consuming and important to not care. I do think a God had set this up to help us uncover the truth. But we are not like Murkoff, we are not as invested in this as they are. And to prove that greedy investments may not really be a life I do believe as we are the antithesis to that so we are going to endure on and live after this, beyond this. If to serve a lesson or just to show that life has challenges but means a lot more too. I just have a feeling. I really can’t totally shake it off. And I am unwilling to. I think it’s too important to redact and move further from. I know this is hard to make sense on. It also not the usually tangible way I think. But I think I have really broadened my horizons.” Waylon looked slightly enthusiastic when he said this, slightly tired. Yet there was a light from him, mixed with the weariness but not wearisome on its own. It captivated Miles and he felt a strange assurance in Waylon’s words.

“I guess Hope in itself is never really always a hands down approach. That’s part of its intrinsic charm. I guess God designed it that way. “ Miles smiled, “However, it is going to be difficult living a life after all this. It will be sometimes disturbing. I can’t completely shake off the calm feeling I have here as a lie. It’s not a lie I guess with all the things that went down it is difficult to be like this. To be centred on something non-destructive and chaotic. It scares me. You help me a bit but you know it’s also a process of my own self. I sometimes do not know how to handle it. But I think I must take a little at a time. Yet your words have helped a lot. I am glad that I wasn’t alone in this. Even if I am the host of the Walrider. And you are not a Variant. You seem get things the most and best way. That comforts me.”

Waylon caressed Miles’s cheek. Then still chastely kissed him again. No tongue. Just lips. Grazing, as sweetly and calmly as a wind on a blade of grass. Or a fine zipper that knows not how to tug. Beautifully crafted. A kiss chaste but had a promise of a body erotic, knowing how to handle the softness and hardness of mating and lovemaking. The kiss swelled in Miles. Shuddering, he could feel inwardly pre-cum nuzzling at the tips of his membranous dick. Who knew such a beautiful creature could make such an innocent kiss act so intensely? It was more than perfume it was something absorbent and articulate in the chemistry of Waylon’s kiss. As though it was meta-programming mixed with aesthetics. Then again Waylon Park was like that wasn’t he? — a fine specimen of tastes and looks.

“I am so happy you would say that.” Waylon smiled, open mouthed now. It took some patience for Miles not to suddenly swoop down on his mouth and melt it against his own. And, unknown to him Waylon was restraining himself in the same way. There was a blush almost creeping up against each other’s’ cheeks. They decidedly wanted to go a bit slow. All this information about Murkoff, all their emotions, everything needed some calm. Yet a scent of sex travelled down their spines and into the crevices of their stomachs and hearts. It melted onto spirit as fine alkaline in the tips of the flame; erotic yet also surrendering to something emotional and cerebral.

Miles used a finger, his nub-index one, flattened, yet still strong with conviction, to trace it against the corners of Waylon’s mouth. Waylon felt the soft skin and felt the trace, lesser now, of zig-zag bone; yet, it didn’t perturb him. He welcomed it because it was honest and not snuff, because it was experience and to share onto such a sadness was the least he could do. So, he gently took that hurt-index and savoured it on his own non-hurt index and thumb, a natural canopy of warmth. Those gorgeous silvery eyes, rain-clouds or clear streams that helped build skies and oceans. Spectacular blue eyes that reminded you of seas and oceans that also contributed to lakes and streams and teasingly talked to rain, looked on onto the canopy of silver eyes and nice index finger and thumb, caressingly touching his bruised finger. To share onto such an experience, to know that he could weak yet not be slaughtered for it, was a blessing. Waylon was a bold one. Yet there were different breeds of boldness. So Waylon had disrobed subtlety off a bit. Wrapping one hand around Miles’s neck and the other around his waist he let him come closer and let him support his head against his neck. Miles buried his head down in an angle and curved a bit to feel the sweet salient hearth of his chest and heart. It was so good to be cradled by someone who was strong but was not rough. Gentleness could be erotic. And understanding. And friendly. It was like reading off all these emotions as seismic vibrations from his body. It was excruciatingly beautiful.

“I don’t want you to feel alone Miles. I am here for you.” Waylon rustled and tussled Miles’s hair and neck, holding him in an embrace that was so comfortable and elegant that Miles truly was breathless and speechless but full. Empty of sadness and loneliness.

 

“I cannot be known  
Better than you know me   
  
Your eyes in which we sleep  
We together  
Have made for my man's gleam  
A better fate than for the common nights   
  
Your eyes in which I travel  
Have given to signs along the roads  
A meaning alien to the earth   
  
In your eyes who reveal to us  
Our endless solitude   
  
Are no longer what they thought themselves to be   
  
You cannot be known  
Better than I know you.”

—   _I cannot be known_ by Paul Eluard…

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn't really anticipate them having their little kiss in this chapter. But I guess this officiates WayMiles or camerashipping part of this fic :D I wanted that poem by Paul Eluard which I suddenly discovered to end the chapter — yes, they may not have confessed their love, their love is still young and underdeveloped but they admitted they have unshakable strong feelings for the other. And they know it might, to them, become a relationship in the future. At the moment, the time is not right and they need some alone time. They need to know the depth, intensity and authenticity of their sexual interest, romantic and sexual interest and love for the other. I think good love stories, mature ones, many a times take time in its germination. I really hope you guys enjoyed this chapter and everything. Though Waylon and Miles are not really in a relationship yet this makes them have a start with each other. And I guess many were waiting for this. I am happy with how this came about though things can always be improved.
> 
> Read and review.


	19. Pushing and Pacing = chit-chats and small philosphies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!
> 
> This chapter is a mammoth. I have been away for a while so I decided to write a REALLY LONG CHAPTER. I mean it's 18.2k words long so I hope you like this update  
> I thought of dividing it into two parts but then I didn't because well I thought it would okay to leave it at that  
> This chapter starts with Jeremy but ends with Miles and Waylon :D  
> This chapter has some disturbing elements, TW for abuse, and well a hardcore lemon/sex scene so yeah that's there too XD
> 
> Now chapter segmenting:
> 
> |7.7k| Is based on Jeremy, Darian, Wernicke, et al.   
> |3.4k| Introduces a new character so that the character can talk about details that is happening in Mount Massive and Leadville  
> |1.8k| Eddie Gluskin and Walrider :D  
> |5.1k| Waylon and Miles :)
> 
> So, this is a chapter with smorgasboard paraphernalia so I hope you guys enjoy!

**Pushing and Pacing = chit-chats and small philosophies**

 

“How are you feeling?” The question wasn’t really made to impress. It made an impression nevertheless. After so many lonely hours to hear a known human tone intonate and implore was enough to give desperation another standard altogether. Jeremy Blaire hadn’t anticipated this from himself. Though there was a lot of things happening beyond his anticipations.

“A bit trapped.” This was honesty. It wasn’t brutal. Wasn’t emotional. Wasn’t numb either. Jeremy spoke it with intonations too. As if it were an official mandate.

They had already started lunch, Wernicke and him, yet, they were awaiting the presence of three more guests to their luncheon. The food was assorted, like before, it had a wide variety, however, this time there was a mixed palette for the palate — wild mushrooms, chicken breasts with sauce, small horderves, small bowls of ramen, a small dish of cashew nuts on top on white sauced pasta, some red meat doused with fiery red sauce; on the other side there was also in a small kettle lavender and chamomile tea. Yet Jeremy could not find the appetite to eat. Nor did

“Why are you feeling such a way?” Wernicke drank some juice, it did not feel like wine or something, maybe something the labs concocted for his good health? Jeremy mused that Wernicke looked less dead some times when he saw him. Was this news beneficial or not, he wasn’t certain. As Wernicke had asked for him yet would his increased physical competence or flashes thereof make him undermine Jeremy’s validity was a valid question in itself. And his feelings were now articulated.

“Aside some of the Mount Massive documentations and the consult to what I can understand of Waylon Park and to a small extent of Miles Upshur what do you need me for now?” Blaire actually stated this feeling, this question, with some bold uneasiness. It was bold as it was tricky, uneasy because it was indefinite what his new role would be at Murkoff. Blaire was a bit uncertain if he was still stated to be a Murkoff employee or one of their heads. Because as far as rolling heads go Mount Massive needed some legal collateral damage and he was just there supine to take the blame. Recently all he had done was study blueprints with Darian of Mount Massive, talk to him about people including and aside Waylon and Miles, talk to him about personnel as Richard Trager, relay those in notes and see any pertinent documents in a file that was still being compiled from the derelict Mount Massive asylum where hard-line security still had some agents — yet, there was no new role affixed to him: this gathering and talking centred on Mount Massive, the past, what about the future? Jeremy feared that he had no future. But he found, at this time, seeing Wernicke asked him a question, was having an audience with him (this is the second lunch they have had together since the last time, also aside two tea-times they hardly met or talked), and seemingly was in good spirits. The penalty for such an open confidence, he felt at the moment anyways, would not be severe and may not responded with unkindness.

“Isn’t that a good form of usefulness? You are archiving your role, you are living it now as second skin, a chance to somewhat redo the past, redact it in places. It is valuable to the consortium and to Murkoff and its affiliates. Frankly, you are getting more than you actually deserved, Jeremy Blaire. Under your care our prized new Walrider XY6 has escaped and Billy is close to dead. The asylum is pretty much up in flames not to mention the press situation we are dealing with. You know Genevieve Amis has taken it also her personal mission to research my files, to see the legitimacy of the obituary and facts relating to my much publicised death. And I must admit that woman is an individual of many talents. She is as annoying as Miles Upshur. Not to mention those Leadville police personnel, Carmen Rojas and Vincent Turner, has always been a bit suspect of Mount Massive asylum. Those amateurish cops may not know or do know we know but of course I am not so pleased that these sort of characters are around, what is the perfect English word for it, I guess laundry. So, don’t you think also getting Murkoff medical care, which is top of the line and pretty state of the art. We are providing you with care, a home, and more the set meals a day. All of this are never cheap nor has our kindnesses been measured as a stipend. I think we are doing all the things to make you comfortable. Now, it’s your time to make us comfortable by comfortably sticking to your comfy schedule. After all, isn’t maximising profits also in a sense to utilise comfort to the highest order? And Jeremy Blaire you are also utilising your talents accordingly.” Wernicke’s voice was steady and low, yet, not so deathly but more as a bit annoyed mixed with a general tone of relaying superiority.

Jeremy hated this tone. Its preciseness. Its ability to insinuate things but with a subtlety that wasn’t necessarily subtle. The order in its authority was clear. But Jeremy hated the other thing absolutely the most in his tone: and it being directed towards him made him so livid! Made him spiral a bit! (in his seat, a behaviourist or a good intuitive would notice a shudder of the chair). Jeremy understood the tone was that of boredom. Wernicke sounded bored. At the conversation or at him or both. It didn’t matter if this was a momentary thing or not. Jeremy was not head of Mount Massive, one of the elites at Murkoff, all the hard work he had done was not going up more messed up than the Walrider scenario — why the fuck was that happening?! Jeremy had made a lifetime in being popular and spotlighted! He wasn’t gonna let some ex-Nazi, older than a mummy’s wrapping towel, make him suddenly be a boring person!

“Well…” Jeremy’s anger was a bit stressed in his voice, Wernicke stopped drinking for a slight fraction of a second, to see his tone, levelling itself out, “I did _stay_ behind in Mount Massive when I had some opportunities to _leave_. After all the scientists who were paid and hired to contain the Walrider situation did fail at their jobs by not successfully doing that. I _stayed_ to _protect_ Murkoff and allow its _secrets_ to be protected. I considered myself to be part of the Murkoff brigade and elegantly still do think so. I am a bit surprised also that a blame of the Walrider materialising and escaping be a blame on me as all the experimentations were done so that The Project Walrider be a success. A thousand dead bodies attest to that aim and a thousand more can question you why you never disclosed that there are other Walriders. But those bodies do not really matter to me. It is Murkoff and mine I am interested in. I am interested in what Murkoff is going to do further and how my desires and ambitions, which usually correlates with Murkoff splendidly, will assist Murkoff now. Waylon Park and Miles Upshur are not lives I am made to be biographer in and out. I will tell as much as I know about them and then there won’t be anything else to know about them, from me anyways.” Then raising his own glass, having some red wine in it, he looked towards Wernicke, as he sipped, then raised it high and saw the chandelier glint on it and bring out bright and sharp pixels and light of crimson and brown, “You are a man of ambition Mr Rudolph Gustav Wernicke. You know that lethargy is poison for the mind, and especially the soul. I am a man, a creature who cannot stand boredom. A scientist, a pioneer as yourself know that boredom and the mind cannot really coexist for long. Can a whore and her client stay together after the evening? She must go back to her drinking and what not and he or she, the customer, go back to their businesses to make the cash to buy commodities as such. Boredom is the whore not the mistress, concubine or spouse or wife…”

While he said this an image of Waylon slid softly near his mind’s eye, what would he be wife, well, wife did not really suit a man he thought or even a man like Waylon, sure he was quiet and had that domestic cuteness but he couldn’t imagine him as his mom at a kitty party or a suburban soccer mom juicing it up a Tupperware party — sometimes he hated how Waylon resisted a label, who knew a computer mouse had so many buttons? The word “buttons” transported him to lie in bed with Waylon, as a desirable concubine, willing to go that extra limit to serve his needs, some light bondage would be fun…but something told him that this particular level of exotic was not Waylon Park, though he had Korean and European blood in him, he was not really exoticised nor was he playing on to exotic stereotype as a method of seduction. Waylon seemed born and had developed how to be a **spouse**. He had all the particulars of that. The way Lisa had barked at him so fiercely, so passionately…and he was hearing they were somewhat separated, but only a person with a definable qualities of a spouse, a lover of commitment, of both past and present, could elicit feelings like that in her.

When he had seen Waylon’s children he couldn’t completely see them as his. Well, now he realised he was a bit in denial. After all, the older one, he remembered the name, Jason, was more like his mother, a bit outspoken, and he could see the glare. Or, maybe the situation warranted that? The smaller one he remembered as Chioh acted oblivious but, like Waylon, surreptitiously scowled and monitored him. Jeremy had not really wanted kids. But he wondered for a moment, in their house, amidst this life Waylon Park had — what would it be like for Waylon and him to have children if they could? Something said they might still be like Jason and Chioh but maybe a third son would be into music and business and tease both him and Waylon hugging and stuff. It was funny. How when he nowadays thought of sex and familial attachments did it go to Waylon Park? It annoyed him a lot! It infuriated him! Waylon Park is one of the reasons for being here wasn’t he with the cowboy spaghetti Miles Upshur! — but then thinking about Waylon like this sometimes appealed to him.

Something told him that this wouldn’t happen if Waylon was around. Something sick and stupid, mushy and gooey, told him that Waylon would stand up to him being so much like that path of empathy, that lightning-rod of empathy — probably would tell Wernicke off that he couldn’t treat Jeremy like that — funny, isn’t that what Lisa was doing too? No wonder she was also his spouse once, even if they were no longer together or a bit separated — but Waylon would probably try to see the slight sliver of good in him. Or, rather talk about his skills to Wernicke to show how valuable he was; Waylon would do that. It seems pretty upsetting when you really need a computer mouse to click your feel-good buttons. Seeing Waylon in his mind as a mouse dressed up with a tail almost made him laugh. But then…sensually seeing him naked, sheets off just covering his sex, but even that slipping away as he moaned in anticipation…waiting for Blaire and his glare and he sweetly calling out his first name as Jeremy asked for him to mouth it a couple of times more so he could feel the shivering and shuddering of this body underneath him…a body too passionate and yet cool…angelic like a fiery luminescent of stars but more…and Waylon grabbing him roughly but not to hurt. The pleasure for Jeremy was usually quick, fast and rough…Waylon begins as such…there is entering…of them both…but then it slow and painfully long as they both learn how to cup and feel in a way that Jeremy has seen but never really tasted. It occurs to him then that he has not always really made love. And how he was visualising lovemaking with Waylon Park.

There was some momentary lapse, Wernicke seemed now a bit more alert, not so bored anymore, so Waylon in spirit had fought for his case? Oh, how delightful, or, Blaire closed his eyes and rubbed the narrow ridge of his nose, “Boredom can defile ambition. And I am all about ambition.”

Wernicke smiled, “And ambition can be patient with its intensity.” Wernicke looked at the food, “Maybe we should start something tells me we can whet our appetite. Our guests are a bit too late. A bit rude on Granat’s part. And I am prone to Darian’s moods. Really sloppy behaviour if you ask me. But then again, I guess they are also trying to cure some boredom off too. Waxing philosophic as you, appetizing in a soporific manner.” Then Wernicke toasted, now white wine, in hand, crystalline and bubble-centric, “To ambition and how it cuts boredom.”

Jeremy looked normal, “To ambition and how it cuts boredom.” Though, in his heart, whatever was left of it, he knew this wasn’t entirely going good. Without a ship to steer this captain was becoming obsolete by the minute. Jeremy thought that maybe, just maybe…yes, in his head that thought played…Darian may be useful…

They have had sex a couple of times now. No fixed position. No true dominant or submissive. They took enough equable turns. Though Jeremy liked what was at times turned “top” or “seme” position mostly. Even with women, Jeremy had to be top mostly because it allowed him quickness and he didn’t know how to prolong sex well enoughs. He was good at rough, raw sex and most men and women could rate him an A on that; that he was good at giving that craved orgasm. However, if you wanted something more than sexual experience Jeremy wasn’t really your guy.  All he knew that this was the first time he had sex or a threesome that included a Walrider. Slicestorm turned him off at times, the way he drooled and lapped at their extinguished seamen and lapped at their cocks. It seemed to have a penis of its own. Large, but couldn’t keep a firm erection all the time (which, to Jeremy’s surprise and sometimes perverse humour, made Darian thrash his Walrider for). It was something also to cut boredom with. After all, how many men had threesome with boy-Lolita-Goth-punk types and Walriders? It was obviously a unique case. Yet, maybe it can serve other purposes as well?

Speaking of such daemons — Darian arrived with Helen Granat and Danielle Austen with, shockingly, a more _balanced_ (if that was the right word or should it be “mellow”?) Dr Andrew Lanes. For a moment, Jeremy thought he was going to make an obscene scene again, so he actually covered his nose and mouth. Seeing that Dr Andrew Lanes wasn’t defecating and urinating and vomiting made Jeremy sigh a bit in relief. After all the emotional shit storm he was going through at the moment he didn’t want to actually see evidence of that from Lanes. Lanes saw his move and looked disgruntled and disgusted at him as if he was cursing in his head saying “What the fuck you know?”

“Oh, Dr Andrew Lanes I am so happy to see to that you have recovered, emotionally and physically.” Wernicke raised a good natured glass towards him.

“Yeah.” Jeremy snorted, “Don’t need a brigade of adult diapers to ruin the luncheon of sorts.”

Andrew looked upset for a bit, a flight of rage, but then settled on upset, as in being demoralised, “Sorry, about last time.” The apology was a bit unexpected but taken in good measure by all present, “I just want a good lunch and a normal time this time.” But then he grabbed and slapped Darian across the face, shocking Jeremy and getting Wernicke a bit startled, though Helen Granat and Danielle Austen just smiled a bit slyly, “I am not gonna forgive you, you bastard!” and then punched him again and again on the face, till Darian mouth bled a bit. Jeremy saw that the others looked a bit ready for this. However, Jeremy found this very disturbing behaviour, even for an elitist greedy corporate luncheon. It seemed these white collars don’t mind getting the edges stained once in a while, or was this a light dye?

Mouth stubbed and eyes a bit bloody a bit Darian raised up assessed his wounds. Jeremy drank his drink quietly. The rise on Darian was that of a vampire, pale and marred with the crimes of blood. It would look majestic if it wasn’t so bizarre-like.  Darian had a half-cracked his nose, which Darian in an instant with a flex of finger and knuckle adjust (well, it seemed he knew how to cure a broken nose and had it before) fixed — it was voraciously unsettling more than the assault done to him by Andrew. And Andrew and Jeremy both realised this and had a shimmer of terror in their stomachs and spines. Though Jeremy made steel in him. Darian was still a cute enough monster. And all monsters had their tastes. And people like Andrew didn’t understand that all tastes could not fully be computed by the scientific. Maybe, through events, or through sweet-talking Darian and Wernicke he could get somewhere. Anywhere — because right now here was getting too sick, twisted and also too claustrophobic to his tastes. Jeremy needed a desk, or a room, or a proper stroll in a street, preferably with Waylon Park…what the fuck? Waylon comes too much to mind. Well, Blaire ponders that Waylon seems the type who likes to saunter then again he did resists typesets though a good saunter is romantic and informal enough. It brings out…calm yet strong feelings…fuck this…he needed to get out of these covert offices of Murkoff! All this time he hasn’t been allowed outside; not fully by force but his routes and things being quite scheduled and him not getting a phone pretty much implied and implemented that. Damn it! He needed to get out here, get laid, get a life at things he knows how to do best! Well he was getting laid but…well, he wanted to probably do Park more at the moment than anyone else…but he needed out. And fast.

The floor got bloody but Darian was assisted by a butler. Andrew gulped. This probably, now in his head, wasn’t the best move. Darian suddenly whacked the butler’s hands away, almost pushing the poor man to the floor when he started laughing maniacally, “Wow, that was something!” Punching his fist in the air as he gushed about, spilling a bit of blood on Andrew and the butler, “You have life in you, Dr Lanes, and vengeance. I’ll allow it. It’s helpful.” With the he permitted himself to be cleaned by the butler and have him also clean Andrew a bit before kicking him hard in his face. Knocked out cold, the poor man.  Andrew just settled down. Shaking but more in control than last time. Then he breathed a bit and stopped shaking altogether. There was now a stiffness in him. A bit unnatural but then again all of this was pretty much annoying.

Blaire wanted to unceremoniously grunt. This was not the sort of place he wanted to be. At first, he had been more than happy being invited to these sort of things. Nowadays, it was just routine and it made him blanch. After all, nothing progressed for him here. And he knew sitting around wouldn’t (as he was thinking all this time). However, he was not fully indifferent. He was paying attention. Because this was one of the first times, or maybe even the first time, Helen Granat present. And that young woman, he assessed her around her around twenty-one and the one who had taken his blood samples. Jeremy did not fully trust what Murkoff medical was putting in his diet and IV but he was at a loss at how to combat it. The treatments were, as Wernicke pointed out, making him better. And he wasn’t going to look at a gift horse in the mouth especially when this one had modified canines put in that could rip his fingers and hands into two. But Granat’s presence alarmed him. _What is she doing here?_

Jeremy Blaire had been formally introduced to Helen Granat. In the hospital obviously. But she didn’t pay much attention on him. Or rather, Jeremy figured, that she kept invisible checks on him and acted on that accordingly. She didn’t make it a way to converse with him regularly. She sometimes interrupted tea-time with him and Darian. Of course, those were also times he and Darian talking about Mount Massive and ended with a weird sort of happy ending. And she once caught him in the middle of getting a blowjob by the Walrider and Darian readily fingering his ass. And he wasn’t too happy on that. Yet Granat just seemed carelessly indifferent and ask Darian questions in the middle of Jeremy being sucked off which Darian answered either with “hmm” or talked in small affirmations and then she left. Making Jeremy want to know what her problem was.

Now, she was here. With that Danielle Austen. They had all begin to discuss and eat amongst themselves. Danielle then smiled at him a bit too casually: “You will be pleased to know Mr. Blaire you are recovering well enough. If you feel sick don’t hesitate to contact me.” Then she smiled wryly at Darian, “Don’t overwork him.” Yup, Jeremy could tell these two did not go along well. Maybe that was an opportunity waiting to exploited too? Well he could gauge the situation. But he was feeling exhausted, his hand wavered a bit, these treatments may help him recover but they took a toll on his body.

“Genevieve Amis is looking at David Annapurna’s files.” Granat looked at Wernicke, “I think she wants to make a good connection to something. Though there are many missing. I am surprised that she somewhat honed in on David.”

“I like David.” Danielle smiled, “I know he is not very talkative as of late but you should see how the serums are working on him. I never thought he would be such a good looking guy.”

“David Annapurna, a fucking orderly that wanted reassignment?” Blaire had heard that name before from Trager.

“How do you know a small-fry orderly?” Helen smiled at him, “Was he trouble?”

“To Rick he was.” Jeremy offered.

“You did not mention him when we talked about people.” Darian suddenly looked really annoyed.

“He is just an orderly —“ Jeremy started but Darian got up and slammed his fist on the table.

“You are supposed to tell me every fucking thing you remember!”

Jeremy looked a bit shocked then glared, “Darian, Annapurna is just a little orderly who was trying to go the press or something because he wanted to get reassigned. The man was dealt with by Trager, I hardly remembered him until the name was brought up. Rick said he was a little itch that needed to be scratched out. Last I heard he was put to the program. And we do that to many people.”

“You will be surprised to know that our orderly has graduated in the world.” Helen looked at her glass and then drank, “David Annapurna is now part of another project in line with Walrider. David is one of the Lucid Dreamers you heard about I suppose.”

_Is everyone becoming more important than me?! This is a fucking nightmare_! Jeremy looked fazed and worried only for a second. Then he recovered and smiled, “Well, I am glad that fuck is making himself useful.” Underneath the table his fists were clenched momentarily and trembled.

Darian snarled at Blaire, “Don’t fucking keep things from me!”

“That’s enough outta you.” Jeremy glared back, “I can’t keep a catalogue out of every disgruntled employee besides you can read the recovered files if you wanna know every little detail.”  Jeremy then sneered, “After all I told you more than enough. You ain’t gonna learn anything if you can’t study beyond homework.”

Darian glowered. Then with a nonchalance shrugged. Then smiled, “I guess so. You are doing your best Blaire. And you are recovering. My bad, old sport.” At first Jeremy thought if it was an insult. What annoyed him more was that it was not and that he used the word “old sport” — like some bad reading of The Great Gatsby: the facts were that Darian was moody as fuck. Yet, maybe that had its own advantages?

Maybe it did. After all it was this mercurial disposition that made them have a sexual relationship. Jeremy tried to focus on other things and not look at the Walrider Habrok stuff food into its mouth like some endless void and not try to focus on Danielle Austen also stuffing food into Andrew’s mouth, who was already looking like he was about to spit out everything back to his plate.

“This corporation made mine and Turing’s dreams into a nightmare.” Wernicke slowly said, above the noise of Walrider being scolded by Darian for eating too fast and Andrew spilling out some of the food contents onto the ground, making Danielle smack him in the face. “I don’t really enjoy Murkoff. But the consortium has assured me that maybe there is a chance for different types of integrations. And they have done so. I cannot look away completely.” Then he smiled at Blaire, “But to you Murkoff means a lot right? I guess you are that sort of person, best suited to be in this role. You always did look like some corporate type.” This was said with some contempt.

Jeremy didn’t really care what he looked like. Jeremy loved the importance and power and money that came with working with Murkoff. Well, his life has always been that and Murkoff had allowed him a sense of being in a position where he could do a lot of what he wanted, control things, see things controlled by others, know about the improprieties that his high end tail society would like to keep secret about but not reluctant to do. Jeremy hated interacting a lot or being too close to people. Truth was he didn’t know how to be. When he saw movies about gut wrenching confessions he wanted to gut wrenchingly vomit because to him why need those kind of feelings? And he didn’t really understand most men or women. Aside money and power and all that what was really worth it? — so thought Jeremy Blaire. Well, recently, he did at times think of trying to spend one on one time with others. Rick Trager made him a bit happy. Rick knew what to say and was actually a bit humorous. They had a good time golfing though Rick at times was better at it than him. Truthfully, Rick sometimes made him a bit nervous. Rick had some strange passions. Took too much time enjoying sadistic things. Then again Jeremy could relate to him a little if not all. That is when he heard Trager was gonna get the engine he was a bit sad…it seemed really unlikely that Rick would tell a fuck like Billy Hope what happened to his mother or anything. And he was hating Hope a lot for suddenly letting out Rick’s name. Trager didn’t go down easily. Made amess of his office fighting off the agents and well even stabbing one with some scissors. But then he had to go. After engine therapy a couple of days Rick stayed quiet and people were assuming he was dead. Even Blaire thought so but when he heard Rick had woken up a bit he saw from a distance that maniacal grin too bright. That grin that had made him pretty nervous in the first place. So he decided not to really care about Rick anymore. It was detrimental to his health and where he wanted to be.

After dinner, Darian got Jeremy’s hand. Then closer to his arm. They walked side and side a bit closely and it deceivably gave an idea of intimacy. Jeremy did not shrug it away. Right now a part of it, he wouldn’t admit it, didn’t want to be alone. And so he did put a hand on Darian’s too. After all he also needed Darian’s good side to make things work for him. Yet, he wouldn’t completely confess that the proximity helped him a bit.

“Sorry about dinner time.” Darian snuggled close to Jeremy and Jeremy realised that he was following him to his room, “I just hate being updated by Helen and her bastard, you know, Danny…”

“I can see that.” Jeremy looked a bit with a smirk, the sighed, “I am sorry too. I…Annapurna was just a nobody. Well, he is getting somewhere in the world now if Murkoff can use him.”

Darian snuggled closer. “I suppose.”

They had a bit of silence between them. Jeremy then asked: “Is the Lucid Dreamer Project important?”

“Yeah, it is. It is supposed to be a bit more modifications using both Walrider projects and another projects high functions. But it is well, good enough I guess. It isn’t, in my opinion, as sturdy as Walriders.”

Jeremy smirked a bit. Obviously Darian would like Walriders more as he possessed one. “What is it like?” Jeremy realised he hadn’t known much about this project, “Won’t I briefed on it.”

“I don’t know much about it either, it’s still a work in progress.” Darian smiled, “However, it is concomitant with the Valkyrie Project that was dismantled in Mount Massive when it was closed off all those years ago. Project Valkyrie was temporarily closed down because one of the lead doctors was killed by his patient, a Mrs. Jackson, and almost all the patients were showing signs of something similar to what happened when particular Morphogenic Engine parameters hit women in Mount Massive when you worked there or started soon enough. The Lucid Dreamers are part or shall I say a bit of the evolved form of the project.”

“What are the rubrics for such a project?” Jeremy stopped for the moment. Definitely, he was interested in knowing more. Doing homework and beyond, as he advised Darian, was essential.  Darian seemed to understand this too and smiled. Jeremy smiled back. Becoming warm with Darian seemed a bit out of his nature but then he was good looking and satisfied certain needs that Jeremy was feeling. A flash of Waylon Kwang-Sun Park came about and Jeremy smile wavered slightly. Waylon’s smile somewhat captivated it. It was so honest and open and he did not know what to feel. Sometimes it blinded him with this immense sense of vulnerability. That smile was something he didn’t know. At least not since childhood. Seeing it on an adult annoyed him. Yet mostly, it baffled him. Jeremy wondered what Waylon was doing now. Hiding. Was he afraid? Was he still with Miles Upshur?  Would he become good friends with that bastard journalist? Was he healthy…eating well enough?  Well, he was a freer man than him. Though at “home” Waylon the vigilante-fugitive was more secure than him.

Though Jeremy knew one thing. He has endangered Waylon Kwang-Sun Park. Yup, it wasn’t the first time. Wondered when it would be the last time. Because he knew Darian would go after them. For a moment, his feelings conflicted heavily. At times he did censure giving information to Darian. Especially, about Waylon. It just happened on reflex. Didn’t really have to reflect on it. Even when he was almost going to be torn apart by the Walrider he saw something akin to fear but sympathy with that relief in Waylon’s eyes. Yes, relief, because he stabbed him with a glass shard and was telling him to die already and telling him to be his boy-toy to get out of the predicament. Jeremy could not fault Waylon at all for his relief. And now he wasn’t angry that man showed him sympathy. No one really did. And though he hated himself to say it he wanted some sympathy. A part of his past self would spit on him. But that past self was a cocky, self-assured, invincible-feeling cunt who wasn’t trapped like a lab-rat underground and in safe facility somewhere he knew was a city but hadn’t really bothered asking. Or, maybe, he did but now forgotten. It felt really odd. Jeremy was fucking the man who was gonna fuck up Waylon. But Jeremy wanted to fuck with Waylon rather than really fuck him up. At the same time, he wanted Murkoff’s attention and respect. Or, whoever, really ran the show. Those were all star-crossed objectives. Romeo and Juliet could suck his cock. However, star crossed was not really an aberration. Shakespeare may see it that way but connecting the dots is what star aligned was usually about and getting straight lines isn’t always the milky-way game. Perhaps, he could balance this all in some funambulist feat of the decades? — Perhaps, after all he didn’t just screw balls and ass and cock and cunt to come this far in the corporate game.

“You got lost a bit.” Darian giggled and kissed him, “Well, I can’t say I blame you. You are still getting better and I do push you a lot.”

The kiss got Jeremy to pay attention again fully. Damn, he might be a bit tired. All these drugs and serums were getting to him…but he had to stay awake to know some of what he asked. Vigilance was non-negotiable. “Sorry, maybe I am a bit tired but I am more enthused. So, tell me all about the rubrics.”

“Well, Project Valkyrie is more about modifications. You see even in Project Walrider you will notice many Variants are fucked up because their bodies are not exposed to a framework that can suit Walrider coefficient-coexistence even if the person has mentally, psychologically and emotionally been exposed to framework he or she needs to be physically and phenomenologically be exposed to some nutrients that can encompass the new mental elements in their being. Of course, Project Valkyrie first started with hypnotherapy to both make mind and body excel in mapping out augmented focus in a particular stimuli of either subtle or mass proportions. However, this put a strain on some of the patients, even semi-successful cases.  A Shirley Pierce would harm herself in lucid dreaming as though something integral inside her hating following the orders of others or being controlled. I like her rebellious nature a bit. Nice spark. No wonder her husband, a stupid simpleton, had to choose a younger, baser woman. Can’t handle spark these small town fucks. Anyways, I digress. Well, Valkyrie made a good progress for a while.  Most of the patients were women. There was a sexism at work that whatever these women could take or could not take would ultimately also set a bar for the men.

Well, Mount Massive does have its gender quirks. The success rate of the women patients mostly almost fully did not work out for the men. In fact, many men failed to even survive initial runs. So, the successful or near successful women of this project were very valuable. However, some of them got angry and unhappy. And then there was that incident with Dr. Newman who was then killed by Mrs. Jackson. Apparently, he was sleeping with her but she was in love with him. And the love triangle was that he was more interested, both as experiment and person, voila, Shirley Pierce. Anyways, that’s another digression. The facility was shut down and some of the Valkyrie variants escaped but most were taken to other facilities. The body modifications sometimes included mutations that made bone stronger and skin more internally harder to deflect many steels and even bullets from time to time. They had started getting faster brain processes. They had better reflexes. They also could understand their internal bio clock more fully and be aware of changes in their bodies. They also resembled lucid dreaming and basic forms of telepathy and telekinesis. Of course, there was no Walrider involved. Which allows a much better integration if you ask me. But yes they had better healing and they also seemed to age slower than many people. Well, I guess that’s the basic stuff about it. But each Valkyrie like each Walrider was pretty different too. Let’s say Mrs. Jackson had better control of flame agents and fire. She would burn herself at times and heal then back. Well, everyone has their own unique way of taking to this. The Morphogenic engine wasn’t fully formed by then but certain samples of it did also help or deteriorate the Valkyrie variants. One of them did have the pregnancy bug we face with our batch. But mostly some of them just broke down or some got too susceptible to therapies or some got angrier. Some good one like Jackson was able to control flames better after her exposure. So, yeah, that’s about it.”

“That sounded like a history lesson fucked a science lesson but it’s nice to know Mount Massive’s rich details of the past.” Blaire tried to remember most of what was being said.

“Well, your room is near…” Darian cuddled again, suggestively, “You need your rest.”

“Yes…” Jeremy breathed deeply, tired but welcoming, “I guess I need to rest.” This is not entirely untrue. But it lingers. Darian knows something. Jeremy knows something.

Darian stopped being coy and pushed Jeremy into the room. Jeremy staggered a bit; he noticed that the lights were too dimmed. Didn’t he leave them on? What was happening? And there wasn’t any sign of Slicestorm and he wondered if this sign of being sign-less was good or bad.

Darian had unzipped his pants. Jeremy’s penis was not really erect but it had hardness beginning. The promise of something had made some of its nerves attentive and it could be nicely see by the way it jolted and tingled around. Darian licked on it slowly, lathering in and out. Jeremy had always been fascinated by Darian’s tongue for it looped around things like confectionaries and food with a snake-like charm that hissed and slithered like a separate entity. It was an anatomical thing and a personality trait. Darian liked playing around. The flicks were slow then steadied then became a bit rough and ordered. Jeremy moaned and fell down on the bed by now. Darian got up and presented his crotch near his face. Jeremy smiled a bit between partially closed eyes. Unzipping out Darian’s dick he also sucked furiously. As they both salivated each other’s’ members the breathing hitched and crackled like the scented candles in the room — which Jeremy knew that Darian lit for ambience because he sometimes did such things. Could be equably perverse, could be equably romantic-like — this odd conflicts in his nature at times bothered Jeremy because it was so contradictorily placed. Then, maybe, Jeremy sucked, tasted drops of salty sperm, pre-cum readied, that his life may have been such. An affair in contradictions. So, he was as such.

Jeremy, without warning, came into Darian’s mouth. Yet, this was a distinguished routine amongst them. That they could cum into each other’s mouths. Well, from time to time. At times Darian would get upset or even Jeremy but today was not one of those days. Promptly, after a few moments, Darian too ejaculated with all abandon into Jeremy’s mouth. The cum trailed down his face in thick little trails of sticky semi-liquid jelly that Jeremy still swallowed and soon used his tongue to lap up some of the other spunk. Darian still sucked on Jeremy’s dick and licked it. They both lost their erections in a minute or two but Darian dashed to kiss Jeremy on the face. His tongue went it as quickly as it has mounted his cock and sucked with an equal passion that Jeremy both enjoyed and was overwhelmed by. He couldn’t quite keep up with this frenetic blast of a kiss. Missing some movement cues made Darian make an exasperated noise in their mouths and push forward with a determination that made Jeremy a bit passive but accepting of the fury of the kiss. Yet then Darian slowed down as though mimicking the movements withholding orgasm and then slowly ran his tongue amongst teeth and inner cheeks and then waited to see what Jeremy’s tongue did. It responded by doing the same then pulling in the other tongue for the dance to continue. Anti-climax soon climaxes in a saliva mess that was slippery but promised more sexual things.

Darian grabbed Jeremy’s cock. Testing his balls and teasing him back into another erection. Jeremy moaned hard as he felt his hardness get penetrated by another hardness of thrusts. Darian had started riding him with full abandon. Feeling that other man’s tightness fuck him made Jeremy start crying in pleasure that accompanied the fullness of set noises from Darian. They bounced up and down and took some short breaks to completely undress. Jeremy grabbed Darian’s hips while the other gripped on the other’s too but from parallel sides. Each pelvis thrusted with the same destination of pleasure. Darian expertly bounced up and down and moved with such aggression that Jeremy had no idea he could be fucked this way though his penis was feeling the other man’s parts. Jeremy within twenty minutes was exploded by an orgasm that made him scream pitch high and feel the back of Darian near his face. But Darian was not done. Getting out and consequentially dropping some of the hot cum on Jeremy’s own penis he pushed up the latter’s own backside and slid in the tightness. Not so hard this time, this was done a bit carefully as if Darian knew that him and Jeremy had not the same sort of body preparations. Jeremy then felt Darian thrusting in and out, in and out, and he moaned in and out as well. Then around fifteen more minutes later Darian had come into him and Jeremy felt his cock finally be a bit limp. It had only been half-attentive now and did not really ejaculate much this time. But he was happily satiated but their vers performance.

Darian hugged him for a bit. But then got up and was getting dressed. Jeremy was a bit confused. Seeing Darian earlier he though the other man would stay a bit. Or snuggle a bit. Well, that moody bastard did things his way. Jeremy couldn’t really complain if he stayed or left. Though he was half hoping he had stayed. But knowing Darian he knew that probably he wanted to do other things. And best not get in the way of other things for the time being.

“I had fun.”

The short silence, which was only pinched on by their breaths on a cue, was broken by Darian acknowledging their actions.

Jeremy smiled: “So, did I.”

He got cosy in his sheets while Darian finished dressing. There was a hazy aura suddenly in the room. Looked like Habrok came back and was looking pretty flustered and anxious. It was like separation anxiety from his host. Darian slapped him once for his over twitching. Then caressed his face. Jeremy looked on with amused eyes then closed them,

“I have to say, I didn’t know if I had to be repulsed by that or jerk off to it. But I gotta say buddy that was one hell of a show.”

Jeremy’s eyes immediately shot open and he shot up. Darian had now brightened the lights and Jeremy looked at in a wheelchair, seated, with many tubes out of his mouth and spine, was none other than Rick Trager.

Jeremy swallowed hard.

It was like Darian knew how to push buttons.

Or, introduce anomalies in his own plans.

Didn’t know if he should be impressed or angry at the little shit or both. Maybe he was both. But how was Trager still alive?

He saw the pictures of him dead as a doorknob when being crushed by an elevator. Apparently Miles Upshur did that.

“Mr. Trager or Dr Trager.” Darian looked at him sweetly, “I am happy you were here to see us but I hoped the morphine kept you at least knocked out a bit longer.” Then looking at Jeremy, “Your friend somewhat survived. My Walrider saw signs of life, really faint, and we decided to see if he would make it. Well, he partly did. I am hounding him for information too.” As Jeremy had feared and did not like, this made him also have to fight for his place of worth, Trager knew things about Annapurna, more intimate details, that would no doubt help Murkoff as he was now a Lucid Dreamer, not to mention Trager knew some personnel more intimately, a part of him was a bit happy to see him alive (they did have a rapport) another part just wished him dead. “Though I think you know Waylon better than him. But he had a run-in with Upshur personally so I think that would come in handy.” No shit. “I hope you guys get reacquainted. I need to go and probably attack Waylon and Miles.”

This got Jeremy’s attentions: “What?”

“Well, I pinpointed some of their coordinates.” Darian laughed happily and Slicestorm hugged him, “We can’t wait can we Habrok? I can’t wait to see if Miles is able to best up. I doubt it. I guess I can cut up a leg. Well, I guess I could.” Darian snickered.

Jeremy saw these events as a murky reality indeed. _I am in a hell of a shit storm now_ _…_ _._

* * *

 

Her years as a cop were young but Carmen Rojas, 26, was determined as a rookie going on some sleuth. She is still in part-time study of law enforcement protocols and trying to pursue an undergraduate degree, without a specified major though criminal psychology and forensics were in her itinerary. After all she was committed to the law enforcement ideals though she wasn’t naïve and knew that ideals were not consistently enforced and had no economy in the minds of the lascivious, avaricious and the corrupt. She had just started around three years ago as a patrol ranger. A job most women and even many men were not happy to do. The hours were long, lonely, dangerous and not full of activity and the pay little and could slacken at any time. However, she decided if that is what needed to be done after all fieldwork, even of this minutiae, was important in her line of work. Yet Carmen knew because she was a woman, and a Latina one at that, there would be some discriminations.

The town she lived in was small, mostly Caucasian population, with the other major minority being African American. There were hardly any Asians or South Americans, most came in transit, to go to the Mount Massive facility, which she subtly and at times overtly, abhorred. There was something about the place that never sat right with her. Her own maternal Aunt, Judith, had been a schizophrenic who had both been institutionalised and lived at home. She had seen her outbursts, her spacing out and also doing many things which were in tandem with what was by societal standards “insane” though at times young Rojas would instinctively question the correlations between imaginary friends and culpabilities to insanity.

 The Mount Massive asylum was pretty desolated and looked so confined and there was something intrinsically sad about the place. The hedges and stone walls seemed to moan, creek and amble around in an obtuse form of perverseness. She had been called there around a few times to help with things as “domestic violence” or just assisted other cops help with minor infractions or patrols. Yet, she had always been really unhappy at the level of inordinate cool and reserved attitude. She also saw some of the patients at times looking rather meek, scared or lost: something that she had noticed were not always the case they came with (she had followed up secretly on a few with glances on the lobby or casual questions).

Well, now Leadville had become a bit of a media circus. The recent events at Mount Massive, whether the video was true or not, whether such a place should be renovated more on accounts of it housing so many criminally insane people, had brought an entire throng of reporters and journalists, and other careerists into the once quiet town. This was both good and bad, well, mostly bad, for the town. The police felt incapacitated from doing their regular routines. Extra shifts were mandated as newcomers may disrupt the flow of life and it was significant to monitor who did what. Also reporters were questioning the acumen and integrity of a beloved town mayor who had run for office twice. Though Carmen didn’t really like the man for his budget-cuttings and funding irrelevant projects it was known that he had some ties with Murkoff, after all this town was one of the nearest to the asylum and security protocols and many other junctions of interests had to be discussed. There were questioned called upon now, even by some citizens if their mayor was on Murkoff’s payroll. Which was kind of obvious he partly was. The town was uncomfortable. They were not used to other cities’ reporters asking them questions. A curfew was also under easy ordainment that people from outside could not be after hours in specific areas and denizens were also told to stay away as some of these people were so keen on questioning it became harassment.

Carmen’s main concern was David Annapurna. She had met him on several occasions. Looked like a man of discipline, empathy and integrity. Now he was missing. And Carmen knew for a fact that he had been missing long before this Mount Massive thing had spilled. And she had been worried about him. When she called the institution one naïve responder had said he had not worked there and another more seasoned one said he had transferred. Rojas knew that Annapurna’s transfer request was denied three times, that is a charm that her intuition said that didn’t easily come off. Not to mention Annapurna had, though she had protested he did not, threatened in his last request letter that he would inform the press if his wishes were not taken seriously. Carmen did not trust this institution. She always saw new patients being brought in and many not getting out. Not to mention she at times noticed the behaviour of their person being treated so harshly that she actually did not believe they were being treated. Aunt Judith had less money invested in her but a lot of kindness helped along the way to her partial stability. Yet these people were treating patients as though they were cattle, the way she witnessed some moments; a barking order or a loose fist or even a condescending sort of mocking.

Her beliefs of something happening to David was further enforced by the really sweet but conciliatory behaviour of an employee, a Danielle Austen, from Murkoff head offices. She was also sceptical why such a higher up, though assistant, would want to speak to her. Of course, she knew she called a few times about David but this woman had taken an interest and Carmen was sure this was not entirely good. “Miss Rojas, I must say that I like your dedication as a cop, yet Mr. David Annapurna has resigned of his own free will. We tried to accommodate him in Mount Massive. For a time, he was also admitted as a patient —“

“As a patient?!” Carmen realised maybe it wasn’t completely a good idea to scream. Austen looked at her a bit shocked then annoyed. Gaining her composure, Carmen continued, “There is no way, excuse my straightforwardness, that David Annapurna would be admitted in the mental asylum he worked in or any asylum for that matter.”

“You are saying this with such confidence.”  Danielle smiled and Carmen didn’t trust it a bit, “It seems you knew Mr. Annapurna pretty well.”

This didn’t look or sound good. Something told her this was an expert inquisition, however, she persisted, “Well I knew him well enough to know he was a mentally fit person. Listen Miss Austen I am a cop who did patrols here from time to time and did talk to many orderlies and security personnel to get my job down. It’s not like David was special but if any one of them was mentally unstable it is my moral and civic duty to report it _immediately_ to Murkoff administration. We cannot have such types of employees working around already violent patients. Who knows what damages can happen? Now, you say he was a patient. That is disturbing news and something that seemed pretty uncharacteristic. David Annapurna talked to many other officers too and well none of them also reported anything strange in his behaviour. It feels like you are implying that we worked around an unstable individual but as cops we could not read the signs. Leadville police won’t like such an implication. Especially, now that recent events has cemented that things can go wrong at Mount Massive.”

Danielle Austen looked a bit surprised for a moment. As though she was impressed as well. She didn’t expect Rojas to bring the ball back in her court so steadily and skilfully. It was both an irritation but also a nice enough change as most of her opponents did not possess such a calibre. And a small time cop having this thrilled her. Her eyes glinted a bit and Carmen didn’t know if that was natural or not. Something about this person looked pretty askew. “Officer Rojas, ever heard in PPSD?”

“I am not entirely familiar.” Carmen was getting pretty irked herself.

“Well, it is Psychopathological Stress Disorder.” Danielle smiled, as if to show sympathy, but it had a mad glint, making Carmen internally question the sanity of the person in front of her, “It has happens to some of our best personnel from time to time. You know doctors, security guards even some top brass so to speak. It happens because well we do work with the criminally insane. Pretty amoral lot as you can guess…”

“Yes, I suppose.” Carmen was not at all liking where this was going.

“PPSD is triggered because of that. People get depressed sometimes worse. Mr. Annapurna started experiencing hallucinations at work and well that finally made him incapacitated to do his daily routines. But here at Murkoff we do our best to well you know treat our staff with utmost respect and dignity. We took care of Mr Annapurna and after he had made some slight recovery he had left Murkoff entirely. I do think he just wanted to rest and spend time with his family or I don’t know if he has family or not. But surely recuperation is in his best interests.” Danielle said this with a lot of charm.

Carmen wasn’t buying it at all. “It is nice of you people to finally pay attention.” Carmen almost snorted in rage as Danielle raised a brow, “Seeing he wanted transfer for like three times and none of you cared.” Danielle looked cold again, her smile gone, “I think a man competent in wanting a transfer so persistently can have his insanity rather his sanity questioned Miss Austen. I knew of this as David spoke about it much when we did meet at some rounds. That is what got me curious to why a good orderly, one of the best, like David wanted transfer so earnestly. Of course, David never said. The man never really knew what was going on anywhere around here but preferred he just left in peace.” Carmen felt she said all the things needed. She now knew with certainty that Murkoff has done something to David. And she was getting pretty concerned what that could have been.

“Well, his transfer was short and he left his post to recuperate. Officer Rojas he is no longer a Murkoff employee and we won’t keep really keep updated on him. Besides, his job was very stressful. His own boss Richard Trager had to also be brought in for counselling because of the stress in working under such an environment. Besides, if David had articulated his delusions to us beforehand we would have easily transferred him long ago. Murkoff does not reassign people easily we need to work with a lot of case sensitive and confidential material and we would be doing the government a disservice if we are susceptible to the whims of such mercurial employees.” Danielle smirked and spoke all of this confidently.

“David was not moody. And I find it hard a top brass man is also subjected to the same sort of protocols.” Carmen chose her words wisely, “PPSD must be pretty endemic around your parts, huh?”

The scathing remark made Danielle sour, “David Annapurna isn’t really our concern anymore Officer Rojas, Whatever sort of relationship—“

“Don’t go there.” Carmen smiled, but her fists clenched and Danielle saw, “It is pretty rude to suggest some things to an officer of law Miss Austen. Surely, you remember?”

Danielle somewhat swallowed, small time cop or not, Carmen knew what was needed to be said. Then she gave a small smile, “My intentions were not to disrespect you. I can see you respected Mr Annapurna.”

“As my job, yes.” Carmen inserted, with a strong stance, “I would do the same for anyone else who worked here. As Leadville police it is my job to ensure the safety of the citizens near and far.”

“But this is not really Leadville Officer Rojas.” Danielle seemed to get her bearings and smile a bit more, “You are doing way more than needed for your jurisdiction.”

“On the contrary, Mount Massive does fall under some jurisdictional claims to both Leadville and Silverthorne. And I will remember what you said when Mount Massive requires any assistance from us in future.” Danielle looked shocked as Carmen asserted deftly.

“It is not my intention to make Leadville and Murkoff be in complications Officer Rojas.” Danielle smiled, “Mr Annapurna does not work here anymore. To bother us further about this would seem uncustomary and too personal.” Carmen cringed at the words, the falseness of them could be punched but treading carefully was key, “I have told you more than you needed to know. Murkoff believed it was being courteous when they sent me to answer your questions directly. Yet, you have been a little less hospitable than we had expected.”

“I would say that it is my job to be a bit intense. It has nothing to do with Murkoff. Unless, you want me to a softie who allows anyone to talk down on them.” Carmen smirked this time.

Danielle smirked too, “No. It is good to be professionally firm and in form.”

They both shook hands. Though there was an animosity amongst them. That would frighten anyone not knowing the contexts.

 

 “Carmen, there is a call for you. It’s Mrs. Pascal.” A young woman came up, she was blonde and looked a bit narrowly at Rojas, but the smiled nicely, genuinely, “I think you know, it’s about her nephew.”

“Thanks Norma-Jean.” Carmen took the call and could hear a bit of sobbing on the other line.

“I am sorry to trouble you dear…”

“No trouble Mrs. Pascal. Is this about Dennis?” _Dissociative Dennis_ , Carmen remembered a doctor had called him that in front of her in the lobby. The people were debilitating how much of his personalities were truly in control or how much he was doing this as an attention whore as they presumed it. However, Mrs. Pascal, his only relative, his father’s sister who had kept her maiden name, was always worried about him. She had a son of her own who lived upper state in a large city and hardly gave a damn about her, was a runaway at seventeen and now ten years later was coming and going as a guest so Dennis had become the proper son to the prodigal one.

“Well Albert called, you know my own son, he was…well, furious. Oh Carmen dear it was so horrible. He was so ashamed to be associated with us. With Dennis. I am so sorry for him. My nephew, my son has always been headstrong and had that ambitiousness that made living with his own father a hassle, but I feel so bad for Dennis. I mean to be associated with all these vile claims. It feels so wrong for him.” Mrs. Pascal sobbed and Carmen could only be a bit flat.

“I think he is happy with his personalities.” Carmen suddenly said monotonously, then genuinely, apologetically, corrected, “I mean Dennis’s personalities are also a coping mechanism I think so he should be relatively fine. Though I will advise you to bring him home as soon as possible. I will help with paperwork if need be. Because I don’t think staying at Mount Massive will help him.”

“You know they got the surviving patients under some quarantine or whatever it is called.” Mrs. Pascal said quietly, then added, “Why aren’t you up there dear?”

“We are shorthanded in the town Mrs. Pascal and they are not sending many local cops around. The patients are considered too violent and some cops returned visibly shaken and disgusted. They wanted me to stay behind. Probably as I am a woman and all the decencies related to that. But I did go there once or twice. I talked to the authorities and Dennis Pascal is still alive so you shouldn’t be worried.” Carmen said the facts, her tone keeping an even pace, her heart thumping a bit at memories.

“How was it there?”

“It’s best if you don’t know all the details.” Carmen recollected how some of the officers pretty much couldn’t eat and threw up many times, and how shocked she was at some of the mutilated bodies, and there were very apparent signs of cannibalism, necrophilia, torture of patients by patients and some of the administration personnel who had died looked like they could have used new identities, their corpses made zombies look beautiful. Obviously, some of the police also questioned some Murkoff agents and their own mayor.

This incident was pretty fucked up to them, for them, their town, who knows if any prisoners escaped, what would happen to the institution now and many other inquiries. But at the moment they were just told to douse the damage as much as they could. Which, many officers had blatantly spoken they would not do. They didn’t want their nice, quiet town-lives, which need succeed on community and ideals and much hard work be devastated by this profanity to their being.

They felt they could not go back to their wives, husbands and families with this amount of blood and gore on their heads. Also, what would they speak to their families, when they couldn’t eat the perfectly prepared dinner? Carmen was lucky to be gusty enough to go. Something told her that they wouldn’t mind her going there. Her race and her sex sometimes made her an interloper in their town and they preferred she did focus on things not appropriate for them. Carmen’s family was small anyway, her mother had remarried and had to live elsewhere, her Dad also lived and worked in another town, it was actually Aunt Judith and her with her father’s mother. “We should be happy that Dennis survived and that is all that matters at the moment.”

“I don’t know.” Mrs. Pascal somewhat sobbed again, “I hope the riots hasn’t altered him more.”

“Due to internal and external investigations they are not letting out much information. But if I learn more about Dennis I am sure to let you know.”

Mrs. Pascal seemed satisfied with that answer though she was, like many residents, undeniably worried about what could be happening to the people around Mount Massive. Everyone had their own angles though and Carmen was glad that Mrs. Pascal actually cared about the wellbeing of her nephew. Because many of the people were not bothered about the patients themselves to be perfectly honest. Some of the patients were from nearby Leadville, Silverthorne and Bloomfield but the family members had been adamant to keep anonymous or away. And some of the patients were from far away and their relatives still kept far away. Well, there had been the occasional calls that showed that the families of some of the patients were relieved that no one had tracked them down to a particular patient. And then expressed frustration at why the said patient had not perished which made Carmen once even shout at one of them out of pure irritation.

When she arrived home her grandmother had started dinner and said she was making extra food as she knew Carmen might have had a very hard day. Carmen nodded happily as she decided to go to check on her Aunt Judith. She almost screamed when she opened Judith’s room and saw that Judith had slashed her hands and had been spraying the blood. She didn’t know whether to start screaming now or get her grandmother. Judith wore this grin. It had some blood smeared on it. Carmen never saw such a toothy, maniacal grin from her aunt. She was thinking of first aid and bandages too but then grin…that grin made you wonder…

Carmen readied herself for the worst. What could her aunt do? But all her aunt did was go near the window and sigh, “I miss you very much Shirley…but I am happy that you have come back at times. Even though this asylum was never your home…”

“Carmen dinner is ready.” Grannie came in to see the chaos and she dropped the towel she was holding and rushed towards her daughter. At that time Carmen got a call on her cell phone. She answered it.

“Officer Rojas, I am a journalist. My name is Genevieve Amis.” Carmen would have hung up but then, “Please listen to me. I know some things about Mr Annapurna. And I am also trying to track down a friend I used to work with. Who was dealing with Murkoff. And I think he went to go visit the Mount Massive asylum before the incidents there became public. Well, he is missing too; his name is Miles Upshur. I could really use your help.”

* * *

 

**inadvertent** , _adj_. You left your email open on my computer. I couldn’t help it — I didn’t open any of them, but I did look at who they were from, and was relieved

**incessant** , _adj_. The doubts. You had to save me from my constant doubts. That deep-seeded feeling that I wasn’t good enough for anything — I was a fake at my job, I wasn’t your equal, my friends would forget me if I moved away for a month. It wasn’t as easy as hearing voices — nobody was telling me this. It was just something I knew. Everyone else was playing along, but I was sure that one day they would all stop.

 

Eddie read this part from _The Lover’s Dictionary_. There were some things “inadvertent” for him too. Like his pining for Waylon. And his attraction for Miles. Yes, maybe he did consciously chase Waylon around and all that but it wasn’t in his interest to pine him as such from the beginning. It came about rather organically. The person who challenged him, he felt that person deserved a lot of his attention. And he was lucky because Waylon gave him a lot of attention in return. Even if their intentions were divergent. Even if the reasons were not the same. There were reasons nevertheless. And that is what counted for something. In the end. Or, in the middle or beginning of things. Eddie had lived longer than Miles and Waylon. Yet, he hadn’t really lived in many ways. Probably, because, being a career sociopath-psychopathic murderer wasn’t really living or even loving yourself. It is true people dread the 9 to 5 scheme but there are alternatives to that too that aren’t bloody, violent and completely self-sabotaging or ruining others’ lives. At times, he wondered, if a family member asked why he had hurt and killed their loved one what would he say? — well, he knew he couldn’t say things with a smile that they were old  good and all. Because, he knew he never really knew the women he killed. They, to him, only projected something about him he either wanted to get rid off or obtain and he couldn’t do neither…it took him a lifetime to learn…

…you could steal maybe inanimate possessions; however, you couldn’t really steal people. It was like robbing the constellations. They were the irrefutable molecules of night. To try to steal them would defile night. And defiling such sacred darkness (which also anchored light) was defiling some sacred marrow in your soul…it was beyond any necromancer’s plight. It was Armageddon in steps. And he had done it and that is why he had to now scrub away the white scars and black bloods all over him. His stench could even make demons think twice of possessing him. Though, he had no conscious left. And maybe his conscious resembled that as a struggling Walrider. Only coming to him in such infrared optics and nanomachines’ fuelled dreams…

Well, the “incessant” part also worked with him. Waylon was helping him drive off those persistent dangers to his person. Doubts, ill-thinking of future, a pessimism on everyday life. Kind of think of it, Miles, in his own way helped him drive off the demons too. Miles had a “cantankerous wife/husband” approach to it. Couldn’t say it was bad. It was sometimes what he actually needed to be honest with himself. Miles challenged him on another level. Maybe, not really intimacy. Rather, it was the ability to formulate something of himself aside intimacy ideas with others. Yes, Waylon had done that too. Now, Miles pushed it on another level. Miles could see he sometimes was really arrogant and told him to fuck off when he was. And he somewhat needed that. Miles also liked talking to him and telling him things. Sometimes, Eddie found talking to Miles easier than Waylon in the context of certain topics as in — well, himself as a fucked up killer. Eddie did talk to Waylon about it but at one point he was going to hurt Waylon so he didn’t feel it was comfortable to Waylon to pick at it all the time. Waylon snapping at him from time to time and himself getting edgy on that proved that.

However, They both were doing great. They regarded each other respectfully but they both needed some time to shape that space that they can be comfortable. With Miles there was no comfort in full but rather no needed exposition either. It allowed him a space already present to be a bit more open in another direction. Though, ironically, that may be why he was attracted to Miles but sought such a deeper connection with Waylon and possessed some of it already. A casual vacancy that can easily be filled may not always be an ideal or even a condition that helps love because its casual becomes too pedestrian to the senses, not in any cheap way but in a way that hold some allure. But a place where two spaces meet with both tug of wars but also that calm in betweens and they could be multidirectional with it means a whole lot more. Well, to someone like him it did. And maybe, to many others as well.  Yet, he did have some feelings for Miles. It was nice to know someone gave him time enough to scold him non-abusively. Even if Waylon did it Miles did it a bit more. Yet, Waylon’s flux between both hard and soft demeanour made him feel really deep feelings for him.

 Feelings he now could admit was a starting of love. Though he didn’t know if telling Waylon this right now was the best thing to do.

_“Well, hi.”_ The voice etched a bit, there was something perceptible in it, not so clearly. Eddie realised that it was the Walrider _. “The Lover’s Dictionary, is that a good book?”_ Wallie pointed it out and seemingly asked how it is.

“Yes, I am reading this book.” Eddie looked at him, then when he pointed again and gave his hands raised on opposite sides, Eddie understood and nodded, “Yeah it’s a good book actually.” Eddie gave it to him, “Do you want to read it?”

Wallie tried touching the book, but he sliced the skin of the cover making both him and Eddie recoil, _“I guess I still need to master that.”_

“I guess you still need to master that, huh?” Eddie repeated what Wallie said making Wallie piqued.

_“I just said that.”_ Wallie said it forcefully, his throat gurgled forth and the sound became watery, and the some crackling like fire.

“You…’said that’ as in you said what I said?” Eddie looked questionably at him, “Did you just say ‘said that’ to me?”

Wallie looked in surprise. The nodded. Then he said, _“Yeah I did.”_

Then Eddie looked at him again, “Well, it’s become static again…” Eddie looked a bit glum, “More or less. How unfunny. I really wanna have a conversation with you. Now, just as a I guess acquaintance or friend. Before I just would have done so to get out to the top heap.”

Wallie just looked, “Well, it’s nice to see you remember your history.” Then he made a gesticulation, Wallie expertly pointed at the book and folded his hands outstretched and moved his head.

“Oh, you want me to read you the book?” Eddie looked at the book, as he caressed its sliced scratch, faint enough, on skin.

Wallie nodded.

“Sure, let me see, uhmm which words would look nice.” Eddie looked at the index of words, flipping through carefully, then smiled, “Here is one:

**reservation** , _n_. There are times when I worry that I’ve already lost myself. That is, that my self is so inseparable from being with you that if we were to separate, I would no longer be. I save this thought for when I feel the darkest discontent. I never meant to depend so much on someone else.

And, uhmmm, this

**vagary** , _n_. The mistake is thinking there can be an antidote to the uncertainty.”

Walrider looked at him with a sudden animosity that made Eddie, admittedly, a bit nervous. _“Are you being a bit tongue-in-cheek sarcastic you misandrist-misogynistic brute!”_

All that came out was a swarm of static and a screeching that reminding one of nails and blackboard (that made Eddie almost drop the book and hold his ears) — and, surprisingly, the word “brute.”  Eddie cocked his head, “Well, I was just teasing a bit you know.”  Then he smiled a bit, “Didn’t take the Walrider to be the sensitive type,” then he shrugged with a cocky grin, “But I guess Billy Hope was a bit that way, tangoing on the moody…”

It was this thing that suddenly made the Walrider grab the book from Eddie, _“Hey, you! Shut up! You stupid ass! You don’t know Billy Hope! And I appreciate trash like you don’t talk about him!”_

“I am not trash!” Eddie got up too, “Listen here you mollycoddled ball of goop! I knew Billy Hope before you did and he was annoying ass before he even shoved his dick up your ass! And then when you shoved your insect like didoes in him it didn’t improve his self quite a lot! Still was the still asshole ready to take a doctors’ cocks him if it got him on the high end! ”

_“You are such an unsavoury fuck!”_ the static on Wallie blazed and flared like the furs of a cat screeching, _“You may make pretty dresses but you are sure a lousy fuck!”_

The Walrider threw away the book and went claws stretched near Eddie and grabbed him slightly roughly. They bothy sneered at each other.

“Wait…Wait — wait just a moment.” Eddie looked at his arms. The Walrider had been touching him…like, like a normal person would. Then Wallie exhaled a bit and noticed it too. Then they both turned and looked at the book that had been thrown at a nearby armchair.

It had some burned talon marks on it. But the searing did not cause the book or its pages to be ripped or torn.

“I guess you need to either really concentrate or distract yourself to well, do, normal stuff like hold things. And you seem to be able to touch people enough without hurting them.” Eddie looked gently at the Walrider now, “I guess, good job, that book is still in one piece.”

_“Yayyay!”_ Wallie screamed and suddenly, as if by hyperactivity, he scratched Eddie’s left arm…a bit deep.

“Owww! Stop celebrating early dickwad!” Eddie clutched as the blood came out.

_“Oh, I am so sorry!”_ Wallie looked so guilty. And though Eddie momentarily glared as he heard the static he saw Wallie’s expression of genuine regret.

“Wait…Wait up, a few moments ago…I…” Eddie cocked his head, “I could hear what you were saying…” Then sighed, “I guess it comes and goes huh. Or, maybe like the book it has that effect.”

Wallie considered this for a moment. Maybe, Eddie was right. _“I’ll ask The Twins to help me bandage that cut. I am sorry once again I really am.”_

And the Wallie went and reflexively grabbed the doorknob, scratching it up and getting some splinters out.

“I think you should just your own thing still for now.” Eddie chuckled as Walrider scratched his head and sighed.

* * *

 

Miles looked at Waylon. Waylon looked at Miles with a look that was a cross-sectional between shyness, anticipation, lust and well heated assertiveness, aggressive. Miles blushed under the tenets of such diverse forces. The fact that Waylon could project many of them surprised him. Not that he didn’t think Waylon could. It’s just suddenly seeing it without preparation was something to behold. It was like an arsenal or a bouquet of beautiful messes and tenderness; a canvas coloured like the dusk. Intermeshed with a strong odour of sleep yet activity. Repose indeed. As he once thought. Then Waylon smiled naughty. Waylon smiled nicely. Not tame. Not domesticated. But nice. Like candour and casual and soft and hard together. Miles did it too. But his was a bit awkward. They both blushed. They stared a bit longingly. Their eyes catching some star-shine, some luminescence of fireplace hues. They sat out on the terrace drinking some milk-tea, chai, they found a packet, and it was the most easiest yet so hardest thing to do. They were two constellations locking lips without lips. Waylon then lay down a bit on the sofa.

“I love that dusk is soon going to happen.”

“Yeah.” Miles responded, “You can still smell the light rain.”

“The petrichor of the serein and the soft day time shower?” Waylon said with a smile.

Miles smiled. It was like a part of his soul had spoken. “I want to teach Wallie how to read and write.”

“I did not know he required such literacy…” Waylon looked a bit puzzled, “I mean he seems well versed.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t know how to read and write.” Miles said pointing to the factual, “You know…I mean…not that I wanna be…more adhesive to him, but, I make my world have much sense with writing you know…and, I think Wallie and I can be more at understanding if we write. Also,” Miles took a deep breath, “I think, writing and activities as such, have a tendency to create graphs, bolts, and music-sheets of personality or rather help personality come out.”

“I was actually thinking that too.” Waylon smiled brightly making Miles heart go warm, “I mean, are you hoping that this will also help separate you two as individual, independent entities?”

Miles looked on in shock, “Yeah I was hoping that it would help…” Smiling, “I guess we are more in sync than the Walrider and me.”

Waylon looked a bit with his mouth open slightly, a daze, then he was shy, “I don’t know if that is a great thing or not.”

“What do you suppose?” Miles suddenly felt he was getting flirty.

“I suppose it’s great.” Waylon blushed a bit and Miles felt a blush too.

“About ring homomorphism and isomorphism what would you suggest?” Miles asked drinking his cup of chai.

“I think, we have to see if Wallie does well you know, fall under that mathematical category. I think he partly does. But I think then there is also ring isomorphism and ring automorphism in him. In algebraic situations the ring homomorphism is any two rings that are have a function but also respect the structure. In a way it is a variable that doesn’t change the structure. In this respect I think, if I recollect correctly, sorry sometimes I forget basic math though I am a programmer, this is a bit different than matrices because matrices are always a continuous yet stable fluctuation. Calculus is about dynamic yet constant fluctuations. But what do you think about his structure specifically?” Waylon drank and dabbled in what felt was like a university seminar room talking philosophy and mathematics, a student’s ideal ambience. It was nice to share this idea, this ideal, with Miles. And he was happy it was with Miles. _Especially_ , Miles. Waylon resisted the urge to blush or sigh.  It wasn’t that he was being cheesy — but sharing an ideal ambience with the ideal person, be it platonic or romantic, or really both, was really awesome.

“Well, maybe he is both?” Miles suggested. The practical ideals of this ideal situation was also actually glyphs to Miles as well. He felt the same tenacities of the space. The same ideal University atmosphere or just something more. Something like this. None of them was excluding that they were on a terrace like veranda; they were not negating the pieces and peace of the space now. Because that was also a reality, a beauty, with the forest and wilderness stretched out amongst them. It also felt good and it also evoked that space of the University ideal. Probably, at times Universities were safe spaces to study. To experience knowledge maybe not insulated or isolated but with voracious intensity and without vociferous consequences. Well, Universities were not always like that. Perhaps, the University of certain Life Aspects that Waylon and Miles shared had that imprint. And that was a reality.

“Well, yes he can, humans are both too you know.” Waylon explained as he drank his tea happily. The taste burst flavours in his mouth. The fever had somewhat made his tongue acerbic or eve numb to things. So, he was happy to convalescing back to his health and senses.

“Well, you know he is not really human. I am not even sure he is a phantasm. Obviously, he is an experiment. But I am not sure he is human.”  Miles observed, unconsciously and consciously, he suddenly caressed Waylon’s head. There was no bruise anymore as deep, there were still some bandages, and he wanted to remove his hand, he didn’t want to further “violate” the place. Waylon was a man of numbers and ideas, hell, he needed ever part of him as he needed every part of him, (after all he missed his fingers even that day when he tried writing, it was difficult and he needed to re-learn how to use a pen), and he was so, so, _so_ very sorry he hit his head even if it was an accident. Miles wanted to cry a bit. What if Waylon had really gotten hurt? What would he do, _Destroy him and yourself_ , suddenly a bastard thought came into head. Sometimes he had thoughts like these. Hell, humans all had thoughts uncharacteristic of themselves. But maybe this was something else? Maybe, at times, his body and mind was fissured because of his connection to the Walrider.

He sometimes wanted to scream and hurl things. Anxiety was lessened when he was with Waylon.  And even The Twins, even Eddie. But _mostly_ Waylon. That’s because Waylon empathised so much with him. Probably, because he had gone to the engine itself. And whatever he faced was at the end. Yet, that static in his head, his body, that lunatic humming. That one time in the courtyard. When the Walrider wasn’t his and he wasn’t the Walrider’s. Out of complete shock he had to stand for a few moments then he realised that thing was coming at him. So he closed the door. Pretty normal response but still couldn’t move as fast. And he was a bit petrified. The rain. The storm. He wasn’t seeing things right. And the prisoners, the patients, they all talked about infected and the Walrider is not stopped by bars. That it would get them. Like some adult version of the bogeyman. But now, he was seeing a black shape. Then he realised there was smoke coming underneath the door or something like it and before he could move he saw something start crawling out from underneath and By God he was so afraid he wanted to squirm and scream and fall down (almost tripped) and then it came almost levitating in the air. The Walrider, it’s face just an inch away, it was skeletal, looked as though some bad version of the movie smiley too, then it looked at him. With its hollow greyish eyes. And then before he could say anything or just start running back. The creature with the black and greyish-white mist turned and curved onto a semi-ball and phased out the door. Like nothing had happened between them. Just a curiosity on who and what Miles Upshur was. And Miles breathed heavily, his camera shook (almost dropped it on the floor). So, that _was_ the Walrider? That was what everyone had been talking about? The screech in the room he first entered was so voluminously unhuman and so it was this _thing_. He giggled a bit. Was paralysed for a moment. Before he bolted the door open wrote his note furiously and just starting climbing the ladder in full sprint as he was the thing go out the grid out on the right. And he was breathing and panting. This story on Murkoff was becoming more than he ever could have fathomed. It was unfathomably fucked. Well, then, in those connected courtyards, he also had to get the other fuck Chris Walker away from him.

But when he saw the Walrider he also saw the Rorschach ink blot test. It just suddenly came up. It came up and he shook his head a few minutes and it was gone. But he saw something and later remembered it was like you know

“Well, he was born with a human mind, and has the collection of many psyches. “ Waylon explained, “I think in a way he is human just not so fixed in how we know human,” Then Waylon got Miles’s hand. “Are you okay?” Then smiled, “You don’t have to feel guilty about this Miles.” He pointed to his head, “I know that you didn’t mean to and you are sorry.”  But then softened, “Or, is it something else Miles?”

“I was thinking the time I first saw the Walrider, Waylon I was so scared, I was hearing about it from patients and prisoners and then suddenly it was right there. Out on the courtyard, the rain, when I put my infrared on, I saw something standing, aside the swarm, and I was like, what is that? Am I seeing things?” Then Miles shuddered and Waylon held his hand, “And, and…then I open a normal white door and it was there on the opposite side and I was scared. I…at that time I didn’t think of Wallie as a ‘he’ it was a ghost and it followed me and Father Martin too and I was wondering why.”

“When I first saw the Walrider. It was after a patient where I was underground. There was a sudden steam-like heaviness in the air as though something was burning or fogging things up and I switch on my camera and I see a dark thing just coming at me and I was scared I just ran. I mean it wanted to kill me. Something in its eyes was like that. And…” Waylon looked quiet as Miles’s held his name, “Miles, I think it did. Most of the people Billy killed were either personnel or other patients who he specifically did not like. I think at that one point he also might have thought ‘I saw you in the program room.’  Well, Wallie said he got swung a hit at me and as I l closed the door it was hard for him to get to me and he decided to attack some agents he saw. But it was scary he recognised me and thought me an enemy. You are lucky the Walrider didn’t take you as an enemy at first. Well, later on he didn’t follow me at all. I think by then he must have seen I was innocent enough or that I didn’t mean to hurt him. And Wallie told me it was gonna be hard to kill me. I have some sort of life-light that makes it harder for the Walrider to get me. “

“That sounds scary too.” Miles clutched his hand in a tender manner, “It’s funny now isn’t it. We are stuck with bogeyman and he is not so scary to us anymore. Rather our ally?”

“Yeah. But I appreciate it. It feels nice because I really like Wallie. I think, at least to me, he is good company.” Waylon smiled as he also squeezed gently back Miles’s hand.

“Yeah, I guess he is good enough company. As long he doesn’t hurt anyone.” Miles and Waylon let go of each other’s’ hands and drank a bit more of their tea. “Did you find anything useful in the books? You were reading summaries of them too.”

“I liked how it was all about making poetry. But, there was something interesting. Someone who holds golden apples. That maiden or person is pretty much well important. I wonder, as the golden apple is an object but does it also refers to the person who breeds them? Like they seem like important people as everyone searched from them while they were away.” Waylon thought hard, “Maybe, it is an important biological and psychological quality too. A golden apple of sorts. I need to look into it.”

“Yeah, myth-busting and researching huh, I would suggest also reading some philosophy texts.” Miles looked on, chai in hand. The skies were turning into a fluid microscopic paint-blotch with scissoring of blood-mattes, plasma levelled chrome yellows and oranges, aftermath of tissue-pink, flossed with the vaporous bone of white-grey and blackish clouds, the infinite spectrum that tilts with night and day. So human is the ozone and the atmosphere. The sun dipped lower like a channel of water near a fall. Its rapids added biological texture to the sky. And Park and Upshur enjoyed it. Miles noticed, like some Jane Eyre literary literature reading, how both their last names corresponded with woodlands, “up-shore” and “park”, like some pathway into the forest. Like some Little Red Riding Hood fest of fate’s calculative proportions. Upshur and Park, Miles almost giggled, reminds me of a book — oh yeah, Eleanor and Park…so I am Eleanor who reads graphic novels with Park, huh? Well I am not flame haired but — Miles almost giggled, guess I am close it to it by being burnt brown dark hair.

“What kind of philosophy texts?” Waylon asked, “I have you know I read little of even Principia Mathematica though  that may be a cardinal sin — I read parts of books at times, or, what I need and then just poof kinda forget to read the whole of it.” Waylon almost bit his tongue and Miles found it adorable.

“Well, there is this book called _Myth and Philosophy: A contest of Truths_ and then there is _The Golden Bough_. I can’t think of many books at the moment sorry Waylon. But I guess if you wanna look into that you can. I need to brush up on my reading of that. And maybe some math pieces too like Principia Mathematica.” Then looking with widened lips, “Wanna read some parts of it together? Principia Mathematica?”

“Sure why not. I guess we need to brush up on our theories.” Waylon smiled and held Miles’s shoulder.

Miles put a hand on his hand, slowly caressing the geometric skin-fineness of Park palm pressed and knuckles erected, like soft sweet nips already on the bones, knuckles reminded him of hickeys, natural hickeys on the hand: “I will look at more lists on some pertinent philosophy books we can use. And some others. This is an inter-disciplinary approach if we need to find all kinds of answers.”

“Yes, answers. Or, maybe better questions.” Waylon had no other way of saying this. It was important and it warranted a bit of him to be happy and prepare for the future. He was happy that they were not being idle. Though he liked free time he could not get accustomed to idleness too much. That was not him. Besides, he had felt motivation that had left him, well a year or two ago, was returning. And he knew it wasn’t for Lisa. Lisa had tried everything to help him. But help was a process and he couldn’t help himself. And he wasn’t really a programmer alone anymore either. And then he wondered if Lisa was here what would it be like? Would it entail conversations they already knew? Maybe, some old anecdotes that they shared, their histories and how they came to now. Would Lisa be angry at him? Would Lisa be concerned? And then what would happen if the kids were with them? Would soon the kids be left somewhere else? Would Eddie be around? And if so how would Lisa react to him knowing he killed and also once killed brutally so many women? He knew she would scowl at Eddie but then, like Miles, she would probably acclimatise to him. Though, he wasn’t sure if Eddie and she had had oral sex if he would be totally down with that (mentally, he inserted an emoticon here). Well, that was because Lisa was his wife or was. Actually, if they were separated maybe she might have. But he would get possessive and jealous. Ironically, he had been even with Miles. Even if it was one a small dose. And it was mostly the feeling of being excluded. Funny, he wasn’t married to Miles. But, he wondered, if he were to be like that with another man or woman, would Miles get jealous too? It would be somewhat fun to see. Waylon wanted to giggle. Something told him though he was happy that he was here with Miles. There wasn’t really anyone else he wanted to be with here than Miles. Though he fondly thought about Lisa this was his and Miles’s moment. And he was happy it was. Grateful to God it was.  At this moment, it was best it was just him and Miles.

“Yeah, better questions that go down and down the rabbit hole.  And pop out to the Mad Hatter’s tea party. The safe zone, a place of ceasefire or complete peace.” Miles looked at his tea and looked at Waylon. Their faces lit up with a tenderness.

“You know…” Waylon had to grin a bit, “We, The Twins, Walrider, Eddie, you and me — we somewhat form a Mad Hatter’s tea party already. They can come here, we can go outside and put a table and just do the garden party thing. I think the Walrider is the Cheshire cat and you are totally the Mad Hatter.” Waylon laughed.

“Well, in actuality I am Alice. I am newer to this and you and you are more Mad Hatter as you know programmer.” Miles grinned widely and ruffled Waylon’s hair playfully, “Totally can see you conducting the tea party wearing the hat.”

“Yeah, I guess you are right.” Waylon continued laughing and grabbed Miles’s hands with the same jovial pace, ‘I guess Eddie will have to be one of the birds or maybe the caterpillar? And well The Twins are Twiddle Dee and Twiddle Dum. I wonder who the Red Queen will be.”

“Oh by the way the Queen of Hearts and the Red Queen are not the same person.” Miles elucidated, “They are interchanged by fans as fanon. They are different people. Red Queen is more fascinated by Alice, aka me, Queen of Hearts wants to kill Alice because she just doesn’t like her if I remember though I forgot.”

Waylon started laughing seeing Mile’s distinguished smirk, “You just said aka me that was so funny!”

“Actually, you are the Whistleblower…” Miles looked on as Waylon quietened but looked seriously for the moment, he was hoping nothing negative would come from this part of the conversation, “You must be actually either the White Rabbit or the Mad Hatter…the Mad Hatter makes hats right and looks really, well, well dressed, kind of like —“

“Eddie Gluskin.” Waylon suddenly mouthed.

They looked at each other.

Then they both burst out laughing.

“So lemme get this straight I am the White Rabbit late for a tea party that Gluskin, aka Mad Hatter, is throwing with the Cheshire Cat, aka Walrider, is around with Twiddle Dee and Twiddle Dum, aka Tom and Tim DuPont?”  Waylon was almost in tears. “Well, I think with how things went that is so grossly accurate I don’t know if to laugh or throw up!”

“Alice is indebted to the White Rabbit and I think the White Rabbit to Alice. I know Tim Burton focused on a bit on a romantic angle between Mad Hatter and Alice because his interpretations of them were different. In my interpretation I think Alice and the White Rabbit can be romantic — or, at least good friends…” Miles quickly shifted his words, crimsoning tinges on his cheeks, a tell-tale and not a tall-tale, on some of his deeper ministrations and Waylon’s own deeper ministrations said something similar.

“I guess Alice and the White Rabbit are both whistleblowers introducing each other to a wonderland they didn’t know of before.” Waylon smiled as he saw that the light of stars, distant and far, appeared now with a greenish-bluish white on black majestic aura. The constellation shimmered like water refractions oh seas and oceans. Waylon though if they were scales and fur of some beast unknown, covering the Earthen atmosphere like  an armadillo for that is why the lights of new or dead stars came so with crystal films of clouds and other vapours.

“You were thinking of Lisa and your kids some moments ago weren’t you…?”  Miles looked on with a softness that Waylon thoroughly appreciated, “I am sure you miss them.”

“I know I am divorced from Lisa. But I do miss the life I had with her, and, I do miss her too…” Waylon held the cup in his hand, looking at the last remnants of his chai, “It was fun waking up next to someone you love. Security, safeness and all the feeling of comfort and adventure in a ball that I just can’t explain any other way. And the hustle and bustle of the mornings with our children and my wife, me being her husband, I miss being that husband to her you know. I miss having my spouse with me and me being a spouse. I am sorry I didn’t mean to…to say this…we were having such a good time and…I just don’t want…I just don’t want you to think that I am belittling our moments together.”

There was a time Miles seemed prepared to talk, or at least interrupt, his lips had slightly opened, but Waylon held his hand softly, whatever the result he wanted to finish. Then Miles smiled, “The love you have for Lisa will always be there. Perhaps, it’s not the same love anymore. But the love will be there. And for the kids the feelings haven’t changed just you are farther away from them. I don’t think you should apologise…” Miles closed his eyes and held Waylon’s hands in his own, “I think too about the hustle and bustle mornings with Yesfir. It’s quiet her. And By God we could have used the quiet after all the death-knoll silence and screaming of the asylum. But yeah, those type of mornings have their own charm and substance. I mean, I had them a bit also in dorms in university life, and in a house where one of my uni peers was married and had baby so I feel the livelihood of it. And I also feel the livelihood of this.” Miles interlaced Waylon’s hands, their fingers brushed and locked into that known harmony. The knuckles-geometric, the flesh flashing in both blood and mild volcanic finger-tips, Miles felt blood course through them as a competent, singular heartbeat, and he felt and knew Waylon, though without the extrasensory senses of the Walrider, could feel this. And he was right. Waylon could.

“I think, the objective of memory…” Miles slowly caressed the knuckles of Waylon’s hand, and Waylon reached out and touched softly the protruding bone, with a delicacy that made Miles feel safe and trust, and then he traced it on the part of the index that still remained, bristling through the  half-wrinkled creases that usually manifest on fingers, “Well, it’s not to compete with other memories. Each is a shrine to your soul that you were blessed with and each has different pathways and meanings.” Miles then gave that smile that made Waylon’s heart feel more soothing than the chai, “You don’t have to explain to me Waylon. I understand and respect your feelings. I respect Lisa and your children. I wouldn’t want you to get rid of her, she is the mother of your children, you are the father of her children, and she is also a love of yours. Perhaps, you are not entirely in love in the same way as before. But she is a love. And your children will always be dear. There is no doubt about that. I am happy to know someone who valued, dedicated and respected so much to their marriage. People can learn from you.”

Waylon sprang forth and embraced Miles. He caressed Miles’s hair, hold a hand on his head as delicately as he could, though with an intense half-grip as he ruffled and teased hair, the other hand found the small of his back and  pressed on it as though it were fruit and all this would be gathered juices that could sustain him. Waylon almost cried. To be known like this at times of need. To be known and to know. To not condescend. To not let jealousy corrode and win. It was feat and feature to what he was looking for. A sanctuary of myriads of hourglasses chiming like wind-chimes but not disingenuously but with the ingenuity that make time both bend but respectful to the linear. He needed this. And he hoped he accomplished this for Miles too.

Miles did feel the same. To know the cusp; that is, to know the meaning of being a spouse, being a companion, that to him, was something he had longed for. In teen years the intensity of emotions, goth or romance, or something preferable as a Twilight series where each avenue was an escape from the world one belonged in was intriguing. And that also intrigued in adulthood. Fairy-tale and folklore could not compete with the manifolds that anchor and enamour realities. For even if escape was needed and at times necessary, you have to have settlements no matter how nomadic you were. There had to be a kingdom or a cottage and he felt teens only yearned love as an escape for a while not as destination that promised new roads. He felt like this when he was younger. When he wanted something sustainable but the deserts of romanticism had eroded and made cold and humid anything else besides the promise of having sex with him or her in a basement cot walking up mid-noon to return home and puzzle at the audacities of homework and the ending sun and feel night be a wanderer either for telephonic reservoirs of further lusts or to fix-up a rendezvous that was an end in itself with no other charters to cling on to. Maybe he wanted that secure someone to hold on to. Someone whose idea was a rendezvous was not only sex, but to make love or not, just drink hot chocolate or ice tea and think about stars. It was a lonely time at high school he was coveted but he didn’t have the caveat to covet much after a while. Wasn’t the nerd or the jock. Was in demand and was demanding of things that maturity wanted. And it ended with him in a field wandering and wondering with popsicles in his mouth looking at late evening lovers grope and grab their existential sex organs hoping to meet some star crossed destiny as undulating as Romeo and Juliet. Though he preferred getting out of the wilderness with a Juliet and a Romeo rather than die in dagger’s mislaid commitment. So he felt Waylon had made a cottage for him, baked out of sturdy brick but also chocolate and fruits and breads and all,  where he could reside and help in the labour of keeping the house.

Miles‘s nose touched Waylon’s. They didn’t know if to kiss. So they brushed noses instead. “Even if we are not officially together, and this is kinda open, I will get a bit jelly if you kiss Eddie…” Waylon chuckled a bit, “I mean I know we are not in a fully established relationship yet but this friendship is also pretty aesthetically erotic.”

“Who knew Eskimo kisses can resuscitate life in the blood.” Miles rubbed his nose more against Waylon’s, “Until I met you.”

Waylon just blushed but then asked with a playful pout, “How are Eddie’s lips? Does he kiss well?”

Miles’s turn to blush as Waylon rubbed aggressively their noses together as he giggled, “Well the prose and poetry of your closed mouthed kiss cannot really be compared.”

“Ha, saved by the doorknob waxing bell, huh?” Waylon winked making Miles turn redder.

“No, I mean it. I just think you kiss with a lot more…a lot more feeling and depth that’s all.” Miles smiled and Waylon had to smile to that.

They separated.

Though their held hands and stood on each side.

The starry requiem and bathtub had now become more cleared like some optometric lens had been doubled on the vision of the ether.

“Hey, the Walrider is pitch black as the night.”

“Hmm.”

“What do you think, if he evolved, and had stars like freckles on his skin and a moon-blackish white as his heart that changed phases with emotions?”

Miles looked at Waylon, “Are you a programmer of codes or Walrider’s physiology-philosophic?”

“I don’t know.” Waylon held Miles’s hand strong, “Picturing Wallie as the night sky and the moon for the heart makes me feel really like his heart will be like this silver apple of some new found lore.”

“And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.”

Waylon looked at Miles who recited this, “I remember those lines from a poem Yeats wrote. What if Wallie had both a sun and moon as his heart?”

“A sun and moon at night seems pretty surreal, like a cauldron of melting clocks and stars…” Waylon nodded approvingly.

“Yeah, something tells me, we are already there and Wallie is catching up with us…”

Suddenly, there was a distant thunder, they looked up, some clouds were passing, they had been around, but now as ionized grey, they circled the night, the stars were now under a mist of forming rain. And it started hard. Fell on them slightly as they walked inside, not much of a rush…

“Well, that makes ample sense.” Miles said.

“It kinda does. Rain helps apples grow too right?”

“Yeah it does.” Miles nodded.

They both looked at the rain from inside now.

Hands still held.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was that. I hope you guys liked the chapter. Now I am researching and I am not such an erudite person so feel free to critique me if you see my write-ups have errors. And also I am a math dunce so grit your teeth and tell me I am wrong if I am. 
> 
> Also I hope people will review this chapter. Took a long time to write. And I gleaned a lot with my conversations with Tien. I was hella inspired and that guy pays a lot of attention to cannon so reminds me shit when I am acting all spacey and shit. So, I hope you guys enjoy. And let's see what's happening next :D maybe I should pan view to David Annapurna? Maybe maybe :)


	20. Trigger Body +Mind Warp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smaller chapter only around 7.1 k

 

**Trigger Body +Mind Warp**

 

The sick feeling of losing it has come more quickly now than anything. Jeremy really needed to barf. But he was not going to easily go all nauseated and throw up in front of Trager. Though the excuse could be that he looked as though someone shredded his skin with a grater and he looked like some decomposing leftover — okay, that idea of a description inside Jeremy’s head made him more nauseated. Pride lost. Jeremy threw up a bit on the room. Something told him that someone would clean it up because whenever he bled or pus-out from his wounds in bed; some poor person did clean it up. And he was recovering. Some days she had to stay in the infirmary. And despite overwhelming evidence no one said a word about his nether regions or him having sexual intercourse. Because Darian would probably beat the crap out of them. Though they did advice to “tone it down” — meaning, could you please have less rough sex if you don’t mind. Then again, all those serums, some of it standard — some of it not so much, something always made him not like the inadequacy of this secretive treatment.  And, he didn’t like some of the bizarre implications of it. That well, that well — was Darian having sex with him part of the so called “treatment” made him a bit more sick — consequentially, he had to barf some more at the gaping thought-hole of such a thing. The thought was so indecent and so vulgar — but it was clearly not improbable and that sickened him so much.

“Buddy, maybe some martini and a confab will cheer you up.” Trager did not say this too kindly, but rather it had a tinge of disgust. “I mean, I should be barfing my balls off too. Seeing you with that twisted slippery little fuck is a lot to ask for you know…” Trager trailed off, uncertain, maybe, on how to continue, “That sexual deviant makes my work seem a tad tame. Touching my ass and seeing the veins of my dick and trying to probe my IV drip is so sadomasochistic I do not know what else to call but fucked up.” Then Rick Trager looked dead in the eye of Jeremy Blaire, “You and I are dispensable and exhaustible and exhausted Jeremy. Don’t forget that. I may be jerking about my tits and cock to please Murkoff but she a bitch who won’t be pleased until we are both deader than a Walrider’s sperm sample on a specimen plate.”

“Fuck you Trager!” Jeremy wiped the last wretched amounts of vomit, blanched out a bit more, before he spit out satisfactorily and got up. Jeremy was naked and Rick was naked too. There was a thin, plastic sheet, one worn by strange lab technicians or morgue bodies — it was more or less transparent and it hugged Rick in crinkles and crumples and Jeremy realised how subhuman they both looked. There was a momentary look of absolute dread in his eyes. They shook like marbles playing a game taunting children who owned them.  His forehead furrowed into deeper lines than his usual distinguished ones settled down from his other distinctive loose “v” hairline. Then he just yelled, “I ain’t a fuck who got sent to the Morphogenic engine and I am sure as hell not obsolete!”

Rick snickered, but a bit sadly with the sneer of it: “Haven’t you realised Jeremy that there can be worse things than the Morphogenic engine? Or, after you went through it in my case?”

The question wasn’t entirely rhetoric. It had some needed answerable queries and Jeremy looked a bit hapless and nervous for a while. And he didn’t mind being this way in front of Trager because he didn’t know who else who could confide these sorts of emotions with — even if he had a certain attraction towards Waylon Park, there was no way Waylon would know about this — so, he looked haplessly and then a bit sternly in tone questioned: “Trager, I saw your body. You were pretty fucked up. I am not really sure why you I mean; why, how are you still alive?”

“It seems the Morphogenic has made me ‘too alive’ hence there is life for a momentary period that even if my body faces a form of deathblow I can linger around a bit longer in my head. It seemed Dr Helen and Henry Granat knew about this this and so did their fellows Darian Stockblitz Leitner and Danielle Austen. They gave me some sufficient nutrients and voila I am a bit back into breathing. Though they had no prescient ability to determine to see if I would get along well with the treatments but they preferred me staying around. Because I think more for good ol’ Annapurna. You know, David Annapurna. It seems like Waylon Park and he have graduated through in life and we are the older fossils huh?” Rick started laughing a bit here though he has been solemn a lot and a slightly quiet. It was seeing him pretty quiet that upset and made a fear in Jeremy. Rick Trager was not quiet. Trager was usually toothy grinned, saying sarcastic things and doing things for a good old pull. And he was an excellent golfing buddy. Yes, the term “buddy” that he always used. And Jeremy always had a bit of a distrust on Rick. It’s true they get along. But now. Maniacal grin or not. Trager was still Trager — creepy and indeterminate as fuck in a way that you could determinate but also had to not. That Jeremy knew that Rick was a bit of a sadist himself but he preferred to be really clean on it. But now that cleanness was gone. It was like the raw lines on his body, the exfoliation of his veins and muscle tissue, had made him look clean like a body that went under some horrid form of sanitization akin to diaphonization, so the cleanness of his personality was now half-bitten and what was underneath was materialising. There was a lot of anger. It emanated and Jeremy felt it. But there was a hunger too. 

“Fossils are important too.” Jeremy anger seething called him out, “And who are you calling a fossil you museum piece!”  There was a tremble in his own ambience, both men were angry and tired, but one was thunder other was quietening storm, “I don’t want to be defined by your psychotics okay! I saw what you did to Tomlin from legals, that executive you sheared off after Morphogenic had also been done to him! So, don’t act all uppity ‘cause you had your party, favours and cake and now are feeling the tummy ache you bastard! I am not you. I certainly hope we are clear on that.”

Rick looked livid — for a second — it was a stare; it frazzled Jeremy for a bit but then Rick smiled angrily, “Yeah, we are not the same. I ain’t gonna play by these rules anymore. All I want,” Rick sighed, a sigh that seemed wanting but also sinister, “To get some even stevens with good ol’ David Annapurna.”

Jeremy looked at him. Then he just sat down on the bed. The room’s atmosphere was still the half-lamp lights on and flickering yellow candles. Some of them blown threw smoke in as perfectly as an old age horror movie with settings of fog and questionable luminescence like some eroding sepia print. Everything screamed a validation to what Rick was saying and Jeremy wanted to go under some stringent white lights and just wash off this moulding sense of obsolescence but he couldn’t do it simply as such. Truth was, that was what he had he been battling with. Maybe, loyalty wasn’t enough. If loyalty was statically ordered. Loyalty was pledged to Murkoff to Mount Massive. Now, Murkoff was still around but Mount Massive was not. There had to be a new purpose for the loyalty to seep in. And he had to work on that. Yet, he was angry that Trager seemed resigned to this fate. That he was not complaining. Even under the influence Trager mutilated bodies under the feeling of Murkoff’s benefits. Yet, now, he only wanted something personal? Was that the right word? Was this, any of it personal? But what could he possibly have that was personal with David Annapurna? That man was a simple orderly. Or, — what?

What did — What did they have that wasn’t _normal_? Obviously, it _wasn’t_. It couldn’t be sexual could it? — No, that was what worried Jeremy. It wasn’t as _simple_ as sexual — the give and take kind. And, he didn’t figure they would have a romantic relationship either at least not then. Trager had at times complained about Annapurna as one of the bitch orderlies — who was kind to patients, whose disposition was grit and who preferred to not only take orders like a good little boy, rather he had had some bitch arguments with some of the agents too — who all were eager and pleased taking him to the engine room. Annapurna was a tough man. A difficult man a bit younger than him and a decade or so younger than Trager who was in his 40s but looked a bit older. Last he checked Trager was around forty-nine. Or, forty-eight. And if he recalled correctly, as he saw once David’s files, he was like thirty or thirty-one. They didn’t seem to have much in common — Rick and David, aside that both had some humble roots. Jeremy could tell that Rick did not come from money like him.

In fact, Rick once admitted having a small home growing up. But then Jeremy did some of his own intensive digging and found out that Rick’s mother had been a meth addict and his dad took to drink easily while he beat the shit out of young Rick from time to time leaving young Trager looking pretty fucked up those times around. Not that those things really garner sympathy from him because he did come up in the world didn’t he, in the end? So, why sob about the bullshit past? Besides, it’s not like Rick was a troubled, saintly sort of man. Jeremy saw Rick had a very violent yet cold nature. There was nothing that really fazed him. And seeing blood and gore excited him a lot. Jeremy cogitated that though Rick seemed like your regular sadist he most certainly was not. There was those grins and those other quietness qualities with their quantities that confused Jeremy. It seemed to be an adjunct of loneliness but then again that was as far as he could understand it. Sometimes, it felt like more than it…but, what could be more than that…? They all pretended and acted parts or gave good manners. That wasn’t too much of a strain. And he knew it did not strain an ass and hardass like Richard Trager. Or, did it sometimes take its toll? Like how — Waylon Park popped up into his head when he was physically or emotionally anxious? Maybe. After all, at first it was the partial innocence that attracted to him to Park. The sweet maturity bundled in something neat. Of course, there was a chance to more of Park. Maybe, he wasn’t always innocent or sweet but maybe he knew that too. After all, he was a bit ideally ethical but that didn’t mean he didn’t have questionable greys or flaws. Nonetheless, cutting off the digression, would Rick Trager really be interested in David Annapurna?

“Why do you care about Annapurna?” Jeremy just looked at him, a smile forming, half-there, a vicinity of feeling like old friends, “It’s not like he’s anything special.”

“Once, in a hierarchal or hegemonic level, he _wasn’t_ special…” Rick mouthed this with some monotony, he looked up the ceiling, stared at it, aside some small ones no discernible cracks appeared, and everything was polished. How difficult it must feel to know that your skin and bone and flesh was worse looking than wood and plaster and bricks…they were like old museum pieces in some weird form of conservation lab. The thought made Trager sneer unappreciatively and the just glare a bit at Blaire who lost his smile easily and gave a hard expression, well hard enough. “But things have changed Jeremy. Whether you believe it or not. David Annapurna is now more valuable than either of us combined in three fold. David has succeeded in becoming a lucid dreamer and that is important and I think Murkoff and its allegiant companies will do everything to keep him happy and satiated. We are the beggars of this now. We are being kept healthy for some useful information inheritance but other than that we have no function anymore. There is no more asylum for either of us to run. No matter research that I could chaperone or leading executive duties that you could execute. It is true that there might be more use for you; after all, you are eager, cunning and organised. But, you do some public exposure and that may be bad for Murkoff. I have nothing really personal I wanna do for Murkoff anymore truly. Those fuckers told me to fuck, I fucked, I even took a fuck and got fucked when requested; I grinded, I tortured and I did it all with finesse and you know what? — I didn’t appreciate being thrown on the engine room just because of some trash like Billy Hope could tell my name or do something with the Walrider that no one even thought to question. There is more aggression here than science. And there is no sustainable science to that aggression. All I can say is that I am more or less through proving and doing. I will do what is somewhat required of me and then I will do what I fucking want and I know they will give it to me and I know it’s part of their plans anymore. Then I can die happy in whatever way I am dead by. Nothing further.”

Jeremy looked at Rick. Rick’s face, part of it, on the left side, had muscle and flesh missing with skin, or had, because it was now covered up with synthetics and looked a bit good. Rick could still talk so there were viable sinews left there but he noticed that sometimes afterwards his jaw slackened a bit and well it looked a bit frigid. Jeremy could see something really tired in Rick, an expressiveness that he had never seen. It was both alarming and a bit disheartening. Couldn’t say he didn’t feel some _compassion_ or whatever — but he was determined not to end up like that. Not be this wasted shell of a man.

“Whatever new game they are playing I can play it.” Jeremy got up determined, “I am not obsolete nor am I useless.” Then a bit more levelly, “I don’t really respect what you are doing Rick. But I am going to respect it as much as I can. I just feel the Rick Trager I knew wouldn’t give up so easily.”

“I don’t give a damn about the Rick Trager you knew!” It was a cold, hard yell that stretched around the room, “I am only interested in the Rick Trager now.”

“You cockfaced cunt.” Jeremy slandered heavily, with raging breath, “What is the point to give up so easily?! What is the point in doing that?!” Now, his voice made the room fossils could be loud if clanged together.

“What is the point or serving Murkoff? I am not giving up I am merely continuing in another direction. I do not wish to do this anymore in the way Murkoff pretty much plays and as I said I am sure Murkoff wants me to rebel a bit so that they can get their desired results too.” Rick now settled down. All this talking made him look tired. And Jeremy figured it was best to leave it. This man was determined in his own way. There was no need to say anything. Rather, it was beneficial have him not make Murkoff the apple of his eye. It would do his chances bad. And he needed his chances. Jeremy had only broached on this out of the old habit of doing things with Trager. Trager could have been an alley — he had to see that point before crossing it out. To see if he would be friend or foe. It felt kinda strange that he seemed to be neither. And it seemed more strange that Rick was not that interested in him anymore. That Rick was more interested in David Annapurna.

And it was getting him more mad that after all this time sitting here even fucking Trager seemed to have relegated him for the favours of someone else; fuck, it was an orderly getting up in the world! And the fact that the orderly existed before as a bane but now butter to Rick made him severely pissed off!

This made his frustration so great. So very great.

Without a second’s warning. Blaire got up and smacked Trager right across the face. It was pretty cruel to do that and the strike wasn’t gentle.

Rick moved about his jaw and spitted near Jeremy’s feet, “You smacking me with those hands; the fun you just had with little boy yonder. Gotta get a wash cloth nor else I contract some serious STDs.”

Jeremy cringed. Though it was humiliating he realised that he did need to get cleaned up and it was pretty unhygienic to do that to Rick and also to just touch him in general seeing he looked like bad liverwurst. Jeremy made a face but then gave a shrug and went to the bathroom. Jeremy then disinfected his hand thoroughly with soap. At this while he thought at Richard Trager and David Annapurna. Their names had something. Richard was a kingly name though Rick was something that made it sound less regal at times. Yet, Richard was the name of many kings. Then you had David. A name for saints. And suddenly it felt strangely weird. Kings fall. Saints rise. And the thought made him “pfft” because saints also are prone to mistakes and kings can conquer anew and make new empires. While he thought this he washed a towel up with soap and then saw a wooden bowl on the side and put a smaller towel there. This was not in his nature but — well, why the fuck not? The point was valid enough. And he washed his hands some more. Thinking of Trager; his skin and attitude made him wanna welch more. And he wiped his mouth. And gargled. Then he got out brought those out and just well threw the soap towel at Trager and put the bowl near a side table “Wash up if you are so disgusted, I don’t know if you can handle soap or not. And then you can clean up.”

“I thank you for the concern.” Rick washed his face.

“I just also don’t want _my_ bits on you.” Jeremy laughed, then with feigned interest, “Unless, you want it in a more conventional manner?”

“Fuck off Jeremy.” Rick smiled a bit.

“You can fuck yourself too Rick.” Jeremy then smiled back.

It wasn’t like old times. It would never be like old times. There was something disquieting about it but they would manage as these things for them had always been manageable. However, Jeremy did miss the “Jer” a bit with the “buddy” and Rick did miss the parts of saying that and knowing Jer was not a “buddy” really as he tastelessly called others. They had a bit of a thing. They could look at each other with ease when they were doing their jobs that would scream moral and morale assassination. They could find a bit peace knowing they both were cold-hearted bastards. But it wasn’t that anymore. Well, it will just be managed. Jeremy had his ambitions and Rick had his. As long as there was some kind of harmony on that they were cool.

Jeremy sighed, “I am gonna call someone and get me some food. Some big sandwiches.”

“Yup, could use it after your performances.” Rick snickered. It was something amicably done. Though Rick now looked a bit more tired and a bit more tired. Jeremy felt that he would escorted out to the hospital or to his own room anytime soon and well he was okay to be left alone. Darian was a tricky player. But he could be _trickier_. And they were banging and Darian can show some courtesy even if nothing amongst them was courtesy inducing.

“Just shut the fuck up Trager.” Saying that he collapsed into bed.

 

{<>}

 

The next time he woke up he saw Darian near his bed naked and the Walrider eating his food, which consisted of large chunks of deer meat Jeremy recognised. Jeremy wanted to smack that nano-Neanderthal silly but then saw Darian smile, that strange smile that seemed all was well with the world. Screw that bitch — Darian was shocked when he felt Jeremy lunge at him and punch him right on the face.

Habrok suddenly screamed, that scream that was inhuman, static but shrill like a bloody death cry, and made his limbs into two shears and almost pierced Jeremy’s back when Darian raised a hand to make a stop. In frustration, Habrok just thinly sliced Jeremy’s left cheek, it was bruise that would heal and not remain but a warning nevertheless.

Darian laughed, “Wow, how sudden.”  Darian had this ability to make even the slightest thing perverse and/or sexual, that was his curse or talent and it had only appealed in some cases and not all. This was one of them, he grabbed Jeremy and straddled him. Jeremy struggled a bit and was a bit amazed that Darian could go from limber to weighty in some minutes. It did seem he had a very disciplined and trained physique for such shifts. But for some obscure midnight ramblings he knew he was aware that Darian did not practice such physical exercises in his childhood but in his adolescence it had started. Well, he was quite quick to grasp and strongly too. The way he was on top of him, with such cocky confidence that even made arrogance look less arrogant than him, made a chill huddle in Jeremy’s gut but it was also accompanied by that slithering wet acidic anger. Jeremy’s hand were pinned quite expertly. However, getting one hand lose he slapped Darian again on the face which made Habrok shrilly scream again with its monstrous darkish-bright jaws pull out. But without a word, Darian kissed Jeremy full on the mouth. Jeremy didn’t kiss back; instead, he gave cruel eyes to the gothic type boy on him and daggers to the Walrider that scratched him who just hissed and stayed nearby. After a minute kiss, with tongue in his cheeks and jaw, Darian got up and slapped Jeremy too, “You better know we can be 50/50 on this baby-cakes.”

“You brought Trager here and we fucked in front of him!”

“So what?”

“So what — you little shit! That was obscene!”

“Might I suggest that Trager with his skin and flesh carved around like some decoration piece looked more of an obscenity than us fucking in the most pleasurable of ways.”

“Just shut up okay.”  Jeremy scowled and snarled, baring teeth, “Go under the Morphogenic engine a few times and you going to look like that. If the treatments were rejected or unfortunately too good you wouldn’t talk like that.”

Darian giggled, his laugh a sweet mixture of being playful and dangerous, “And what makes you think that I am unaware of the Morphogenic engine?”

There was now a sneer and Blaire was like, Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I mean — Oh fuck stupid! I mean obviously he has to go through some kind of engine right or something to bind himself to the Walrider. However, I never really asked. Didn’t seem fucking relevant to till this point. I mean I already in consultation; relegated and feeling fatigable. I didn’t give a flying fuck on how he bonded with the Walrider! Nonetheless — Jeremy was not giving himself credit enough here. The former executive had thought about it in moments with Darian. Moments of sex or otherwise. Yet, he never voiced it because this is where he should not be giving himself credit or patting himself on the back. Didn’t think it was truly necessary.

“Well.” Jeremy spoke definitively, “You have none of the usual qualifiers to what I think is well you know Morphogenic engine side-effects. Frankly, you are too good looking and cute. You also have no scars nor any inflicted deformities.”

“Well, that does happen to people’s bodies after prolonged rejection of the Morphogenic engine. However, successful cases, as you know, exhibit the opposite symptoms at times. It seemed the engine I was under gave my skin a new sheen, almost a plasticity, that wasn’t there before. I became paler but I was accepting of the program. The engine before was not really Morphogenic engine as you see today. That older engine was based on patients’ reproductive organs or attracting gametes that pretty much would take slower though simpler and also do heavy internal damage too. Dr Jennifer Roland once suggested that a sperm based mechanical engine. She didn’t know I ran tests on that. The ‘swarm’ phenomenon does not easily come up when using that older model. Also a person has to have good sexual pheromones to allow that to work nor else does it have bad accidents. I was always so super-charged sexually. That it worked fine with me. However, Habrok was first once a lump in my chest. Like a ball of something. Then it one day developed a good tentacle that went straight shoot and pierced a doctor in his neck and killed him. After all these tentacles were sprouting and easily killing sentries and civilians alike my sweet Slicestorm got his nickname and then piece  by piece Habrok was realised in form. Of course, feeling your cock being stunned and cumming copious amounts of sperm and getting burned and healed again is not effective so then the Morphogenic engine was made. That utilises a person’s psyche more than the other older engine which also read pheromone signatures.  The approach isn’t medieval or inherently bad yet it does not completely work well. A person’s psyche is better tapped. Many of the newer Walrider are graduates of the Morphogenic engine program. “

Darian, by this time, had laid peaceable down with Jeremy who listened intently enough. Darian stroked his chest and Jeremy allowed it. The story was interesting. It made it fun to know there were secrets of Murkoff he wasn’t aware of.  Secrets he could dig out and exploit if he need too. However, he needed to be a bit more cautious and alert; though it wasn’t that he wasn’t. Just he probably needed a good list of particulars to look out for.

“Is Trager in the hospital?”

“No, he is being take care of in his in own cabin. I think he shouldn’t miss with others and Sasha Ouellet thinks too as well. So, does Helen Granat and Danielle Austin.”

“Are they in charge of him?” Jeremy casually asked as he also stroked Darian’s hair. The action soothed him. Didn’t know exactly why but it did and the pleasure of it made him happy, even if it was a finite pleasure.

“Sasha is mostly in charge.” Darian says with his most keen perceptive glance, mixed into is this feeling of sexual mischief. There is a kiss. A fondling of Jeremy’s chest. And also on his intimates down south. And then there is this feeling of being meticulously absorbed by something both seducing and destructive, and caring and protective. Whatever their pathos or ethos was it was in check.

And Jeremy needed that at the moment. Jeremy knew that Darian’s affections were a double edged sword; he had already proven that he had fangs. By bringing Trager. That he may be fucked and fuck Jeremy but he was not the word “bitch” — Jeremy was happy because no victory is beautiful without a challenging competitor. And he knew how to play this game too. Though at the moment he was tired as fuck and didn’t want to do anything.

Just rest.

Something really told him things are going to go well in the next few days and months and this would be the only time he could truly reconcile with his exhaustion and ambition.

“I found Waylon Park and Miles Upshur.”

The words that came out of Darian’s mouth stung him in a strange way. His spine shook and he raised his head a bit. Like a jolt in full spring motion. Darian was still happily nestled to his chest. Happily he hummed and made circles around his chest as he was swathing in that pool of skin and beating anxious heart. Was Darian playing a game? Of course, he was. But what kind of new game or new move was this? _If Waylon or one or the other or both get caught what will happen to me?_ Jeremy realised this was a difficult position. However, even if it was ministered to register anxiety in him, Jeremy smiled a bit. Remembering when he first woke up in the hospital. Before he met Darian; before many of these things that Wernicke said he could punch Upshur on his face and that meant a lot new opportunities if exercised rightly. Maybe it wouldn’t be a dead end. Then he relaxed.

“I haven’t told Wernicke yet or anyone.”

Okay, now that was problematic. Even aside him. For Murkoff in general. Jeremy looked at him with that inquisitive faced with raw terror at the lack of professionalism or even competence to tackle the system via the useful usage of the implemented rules.

“I wanna know them.” This whole time Darian has been talking with the mixture of something blank and then shifts within something cheerful. Jeremy had to admit something. Despite his rage, sadomasochism, sexual deviances, weird habits, childishness and impulses — Darian had some of the nuances of the complex man; a complex person. Darian seemed to act disgusting but sometimes (because most times the torture he partook in and dished out was a pleasure in end of itself so no excuse there he was psychopathic, sociopathic and inexcusably cruel) there was a method to his madness. But, hey, Hamlet isn’t known to be wise. And sometimes being complex just leads to being more infantile or complications. After all, the baby human vomits out “curd” out substances because there is an enzyme responsible there once that totally disappears when we grow mature. So, we can say we have complex stomachs in infancy but we don’t need that complexity anymore as we grow older. Even if chronological time has problems other places it is perfectly aligned so by analogous interpretation one can safely say that Darian is truly always all over the place. Yet, he did have some depth. Some complex machinations that Jeremy couldn’t always deduce. And this made him frustrated because he had been chosen as an executive position in Murkoff for his ability to know people. To read them or just manipulate them. Yet, lately he has been learning that he certain subsets of people: after all the asylum had been a farm for the insane.

“You seem too surprised?” Darian snuggled on his chest. Jeremy’s breath got stuck a bit and then he relaxed again. At that moment, he could feel that Darian had a small smile, innocent enough, though his hair served as a canopy so he couldn’t completely see. “You think you know me don’t you Jeremy?”

No. He doesn’t. That he could admit, freely, sans hesitation: “No, Darian –Daryl, I don’t know much about you and to be honest I don’t always care.” Jeremy said this with a flicker of a smile, it wasn’t totally a taunt, it was just something he knew he felt. This was being honest. And truthful.

“How come not?” Darian looked sad. This sudden look penetrated Jeremy as a bit uncharacteristic yet he knew that most of these people, well Helen and all, were a bit moody. But, this didn’t seem like moody. It looked kinda imploring enough.

“I actually don’t know.” Jeremy shrugs normally.

“I know I am not boring.” Darian looks annoyed now.

“I never suggested it. I just am not good at knowing people like that I guess.” Jeremy shrugs again. In the rising and falling Darian also rises and falls as they sharing each other’s weights physically. Yet, his expression is the same. A bit blank, a bit hot. Not angry just in reverie of sorts.

“I guess, I can accept that. Actually that is pretty easy to accept.” Darian bounced back on with a smile. With a face that showed and glowed confidence; not that in his sadness his confidence withered because it weathered. He had already established a lot so that a few slip ups don’t discharge the aura that electrifies the air. One would guess this is what is meant for having a strong personality.

“I thought,” Jeremy played with Darian’s chest and hair but rubbing and rustling, in a sweet and lingering tempo, in a way just curious, “That talking to me was enough. After all am I not the consultant?”

“You are but…” Darian caught the hand, not roughly, not angrily, slowly, with mediated care, “But it’s completely different knowing and watching them yourself.”

“Yes, true. As Wernicke doesn’t know wouldn’t you have to face repercussions for that?” It was a slight tease, not really a threat.

Darian now grabbed his hand roughly, “You are not going to tell are you?” the tone is sharp and stern.

Jeremy hardens his own hand, with a smirk, “Of course not.”

Then the hands are let go.

They go back to the routine of just sharing each other weight physically.

Outliers, that’s the word…I think…Jeremy muses on how Trager had become and how Darian had always been. Perchance, this was the reason Trager hated David Annapurna so much too? Could it be he too, a simple orderly, was also an outlier? — well, Trager had always been a strange one even amidst the wolfish executives, patients-sheep and personnel-vultures. And perhaps in that cluster Annapurna also fit. There was going to be outliers in systems. Of course, Murkoff may have not anticipated them. But one person they did somewhat anticipate was Trager. Having some executive who was not entirely wolfish in the usual way was actually not a bad thing. It generates a sense of ‘diversity’ and allows them to recalibrate or reassess things from a different, fucked up position. Yet, now that didn’t go so well.

“Murkoff isn’t so happy with Trager.” Darian softly tells it, “Killing too many variants is not a good thing. Not to mention ‘downsizing’ the personnel as he pleased.”

“I do not think Murkoff’s topmost brass is too worried about butchered execs unless a) they wanted to do it themselves or b) it might make a bad image on the part.” Jeremy almost snorts. And breathes heavily. There isn’t anything else to illustrate it than this. Because he knows Murkoff. He was Murkoff and still is. Murkoff was Murkoff because they weren’t sentimental. They were bitches and bastards and that was the kind of a rave party he liked. Though now he wasn’t _always_ sure. Because he thought at least Murkoff would be somewhat loyal if not all. But Murkoff has felt that business as usual meant stats made the better bedfellow than lives. Wernicke knew that and hated Murkoff. Yet, he wanted to study Waylon and Miles to see if there was a way of achieve his dreams without _hurting_ more people. This had the advantage to Murkoff for other reasons never sympathy. And this is probably the _only_ thing Wernicke _could_ do aside dying. Or, so it seemed like that. And frankly whatever gibberish he was feeding to himself to make himself believe this was a good path did not really interest Jeremy because the crypt keeper usually pissed me off anyway.

“Well, yeah, but you know, they were Murkoff’s things not Tragers. Kids playing in the sandbox should know who owns it.” Darian now kissed Jeremy’s cheek. Jeremy welcomed it. “The variant samples are always helpful so having live tissue around is a mandate for essential research.”

Jeremy nodded and gave a deep grunt as an approving stance with a nod.

Then they shared each other’s weight. Jeremy slept as he felt Darian slowly move his fingertips all across him in a caressing way of caring. Love was nowhere near them. They only shared the proximity of body weights.

  
There was a tremor. Then it became a plural set. Chains startling almost and breaking against the foam of normalcy. The seashore he was used to.

Miles had started shaking.

It did not happen at first. It did not even take shape. It started as a limping sort of feeling — a tingling then. Miles just concluded, as being host for the Walrider, that he was having bad muscle spasms. As of late, he had noticed that being tied to the Walrider made him have these violent outburst or it magnified his aggression or sensitivity…but this thickening feeling, a bubble that was both wider and quantum sized was jettisoning something noxious. Miles felt his heart palpitations…in his ear drums the resonance of Walrider’s heart like mechanism and his own heartbeat beating and synchronizing and collapsing the rhythm was overarching like vibrations: breaking apart hallways — his emotions swirled and taunted and teased and tongued-out and tongue-in-cheek and all sorts of dread — there was a hammering in the hallways of his mind and the heart and it seeped into blood and gut via something faster  than osmosis with a thermodynamic mix and bellowed like the behemoth beast with the intricacy of the annoying feeling like ant on the hairs of one’s skin…

“Miles!”

Waylon saw a large cloud of darkish grey and white dust float out of Miles as his eyes turned the same hue and then a burst of energy flung out. It was strong enough to make Waylon take a step back if not entirely throw him across the wall or anything severe and it hit a light fixture and broke it and Waylon saw the corpse of it sizzled as static loomed on to a quell.

Well, Waylon slowly approached him and gave him a hug. Static electricity jostling and made his body uncomfortable. His gut and spine shivered but he held on for a while. The hairs in his skin crawled. What’s happening?!  Miles looked at his own reflection on a glass shelf that housed some china and glass works. It felt suddenly pretty uncomfortable. Seeing the sharpness of the glass work, feeling their pieces of shards, feeling how they both were an intermeshing of fire, ice and water — the china, looking like porcelain, plastic but also some bone or dried earth — the way they seemed aligned and then he could feel something akin to the threads, those non-moving, sharp, breakable threads — all the things he could not touch — NO! All the things Walrider could not really touch — like teasing marionettes, humbled into a shelf or cupboard, the way that things are not alive can tease — what was he thinking about?! Why like this! Why did these things suddenly bothered him — and he could hear a blaring in the rain, maybe distant but clear to him — the engine broken but he could still see the dark smoke still feel it’s crooked enough smile of white teeth of pistons and silver dagger claws trying to destroy bone and flesh….

….but then that stopped and he was back into the courtyard, there was a bridge, but he wasn’t going to be able to cross it…oh no…Walker was there…it was raining…he says “They’re everywhere.” What did he mean? The rain? The engine? Both? Why was he so adamant? What made that fucker the Walrider’s keeper? Why did he have to kill to quarantine? But then he moved about now, not disturbing the broken or incapacitated and in that maze he had been the only sane enough one to move around he could hear his breathing, like little bubbles or fog amidst the thrashing of rain — dashing for some wooden stacks, after saying underneath this discarded hollow cinder block piece, and hearing that snarl and almost large mutated hands near his feet….Walker couldn’t climb up, yet he knew how to pace and how to attack and how to rip people’s heads off!

Then he made that sharp turn near the gazebo — it was terrible amongst the rain and madness Walker searching him out — his eyes in infrared white and dead like some fish or some sea-monster amidst the sea of black and white wash of theories, fleshes, minds and matter — and he dodged and dashed and crawled underneath that broken place…where he fell down…where he read about Shirley Pierce…Shirley Jackson reminds him of that short story _The Lottery_ ; like the randomised variants with their randomised cancers and sicknesses waiting to be stoned to death by science and corporations who don’t care, to them everything matters only on the finances, only on wealth — the gold standard as Trager once called it. Miles didn’t know who he thought was worse that Father Martin Archimbauld or Executive Rick Trager but he knew he wanted to mash them both in something that was unrecognisable.

“Miles…” Waylon’s soft voice echoed as he saw Miles crackling with silvery electricity and reddish-black lines come out in his skin as though it was an allergic oversight and then his missing fingers seem to ooze out blackish-white fluid that soon turned into swishing talons and Waylon had to be a bit aback for not being scratched by them. He slapped away Miles’s hands as it almost reached him and Miles’s own shoulder, prepared to do damage.

“Miles!” Waylon desperately cried out, “Snap out of it! What’s the matter?!”

“It’s the rain!”

Waylon registered this slowly, “What…I don’t understand…”

“The rain…The rain…” Miles panted and growled and grunted and choked, “It’s just…it’s just too alive…”

Waylon held Miles as they both seemed to have no clue at what to do…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I don't know if people are enjoying the story so far or not. No one really is saying what they felt about Waylon and Miles kissing or anything. I hope I am not boring you guys. Reviews actually help me gauge what readers are feeling. I am trying my best to update quick and to make most of the pieces relevant. Please, if you do not like something or do I will really grateful if you say so. Thank you


	21. Interactive ± Dramas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, I am back. I actually relocated to a whole new continent! And country! I am now in dorm writing this so the update took longer. If anyone waited sorry for the wait. I wanna thank everyone who have been reading so far. This chapter has some sexual content, some intimacies and some stuff being talked about. It is mostly a camerashipping chapter but has a crucial Wayskin moment. 
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you guys like it as much I liked writing it :)
> 
> P.S. This chapter is a first too. I mean this is the first time I wrote something exclusively on a MAC or ever written anything on a MAC so this is like a milestone in itself for me. I love the font display on the MAC so smooth and crisp and dark than its sharper than the Walrider who will seethe with envy XD I really liked writing it in a MAC using normal Word but maybe I will also use MAC's Pages program to also write things later on. I am happy that I God Blessed me enough to use a MAC hahaha 'cause I couldn't before (it is not commonly used where I used to stay in). So, that's a thing :)

**Interactive ± Dramas**

 

 

The problem had always been this and Waylon should have known. But maybe that was the thing. We don’t always anticipate knowingness the same ways as we anticipate unknowingness. In the realm of unknowingness there is less chance to think and more on the emotional panic. Knowingness works on the integrity of some acquired knowledge. Waylon was a bit infuriated. As a programmer he had felt he could “know” some things but that was so not happening here. Ok, a bit infuriated was an understatement because he was a lot infuriated. Miles freaking out like this – fuck, man, wasn’t he supposed to like rain? – Or, some shit like that? – Or, what the fuck?! Waylon wasn’t understanding at all and was specifically feeling the convoluted ropes of helplessness. Oh, the impediments what a fucking shame!

 

“Miles, calm down.” It comes off as a barking – an order, a something that isn’t meant to appease – it is an instruction. Not really a kind one. Like one saying to ‘shut-the-fuck-up’ too and that really shocks – Miles is definitely shocked…

 

-      It translates on his face as panic, rage and confusion; not liking the tone that was set makes Miles smash a light.

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Waylon’s mouth goes off – before he can even begin to have a concept of what is meant as inhibition or something. Something, in him was snapping too – the patience: before he can get settled into something, something else goes off and he isn’t sure how to understand any of it.

 

“What do you mean…?” Miles is breathless…Miles feels a pang of both fatigue and betrayal…and all this time he was counting on Waylon to keep his cool even if he himself was unable to. And now Waylon turned out disappointing. This was a disappointment.

 

“I don’t understand what’s wrong you were fine a moment ago…” Waylon doesn’t understand what is happening to him. Why was he being such a dick? Maybe, he was fatigued too. But even so. This definitely did not suit him. But he was confused because he was just so…well, it was hard to explain really. The emotion was fear, uncertainty, anger and also the streak if just feeling so out of place amongst all these people with extraordinary things in their lists of body structures.

 

“I just fucking told you it’s the rain!” a great jet of white-black vortex penetrated out of Miles and it ripped some furniture.

 

“Will you stop screaming at me you talking time bomb od bad moody psychosis!” Waylon raged, “I am not sure why you hate the rain now. You and Walrider seemed comfortable in it!”

 

“I should rip you apart!” Miles suddenly growled, “You molly coddling piece of shit!”

 

Waylon went forward and punched Miles on the face: “Don’t talk to me like that you ungrateful piece of shit!”

 

And then another jet almost pushed Waylon away – yet his natural resistance and adrenalin seemed to make him more sturdy and able to withstand that.

It is by this the Walrider had appeared as a jet of smoke and viscous whiteness – like a reverse ghost shaking and tilting and looking confused. “What is happening…?” It asked as a child. It was not it’s usual enthusiastic or confident self. Or even mad self. Rather it looked really unhappy. Really bothered.

 

The fact the Walrider looked worried was not a good sign. Yet, it seemed obvious that Waylon and Miles were ignoring that. They were ignorant of every thing aside each other but the concept was not at all romantic. Rather it was its reverse in every single way.

 

Waylon breathed deeply, nostrils snarling as though they were beasts of their own, “I am doing all I can for you –“

 

“Well, sorry there Mister I didn’t know your kindness wasn’t free –“

 

“You fucking git! You know I don’t mean that! –“

 

“What the hell do you mean then?! Huh?!” Miles fury resounding in dark-silvery jets; cascading blobs of power, it was like a spring of both madness and intoxication – and it disturbed Walrider whose static seemed pretty much like some ill-gotten TV.

 

“Miles…” Walrider shuddered, his expressions meek and overpowered, “Stop…” he clutched his own head and face, “You…you’re hurting me…”  Images of the slaughter, the ripped apart cows and bulls came to his head as Wallie struggled as he heard every pour, particle of rain water drip and zip across the air…yet, Wallie realised that his senses and Miles’s mixed together provided more powered up feelings – Billy was always asleep so like lights dimmed his senses were less aware and Wallie’s was put in place functioning as an apparatus but Miles was wide awake – meaning all of his senses were too. And now they were pretty intermeshed into each other. Not one of them knew amongst the two which should be autopilot or how to perfect synchronicity…it was a really messed up situation…the long and short of it was now Wallie was being oversensitive on Miles’s own feelings. And Wallie had to bear this burden. Symbiosis can sometimes suck and this was one of those times.

 

“I mean…” Waylon looked suddenly desperate more than angry, “I don’t know how to control you.” Perhaps, even if he didn’t mean it with condescension, it was not a good choice of words.

 

Miles in immersed fury let out a jet of fog that knocked down Walrider but surprisingly just hit Waylon a bit on the side; like a knock on the door, gently done. Yet the fury of them both was becoming exceeding nightmarish and it scared the Walrider: he knew that humans could be brutal but – but it was the solidity of this rage and the mixed emotions of how it was etched made him well scared. He had seen rage. Seen the lucidity of Billy’s and others. Ambivalence was something he somewhat knew even if he was not intimate with him himself. But now it coursed through his nano-veins; it made ice and fury of him in ways his former taxonomy could not entail. Billy was not confused – Billy was never confused about revenge – about the faculties that governed revenge; at least not for himself. And most of his rage was governed in revenge. Governed in fear and also a bravado later on that he must persist like this if not anyway else. Miles was different. Miles was confused. Miles had fear. Miles was normal. Normal than Billy. Normal than most people.

 

The furniture around trembled with Miles’s rage: “How dare you think you can control me?!”

 

“How dare you think I am just a molly coddling idiot – it’s just rain get over it!” Waylon screamed and something of his aura changed too. There was an active resistance but Walrider presumed, a bit correctly, that only he saw it more clearly. The bioluminescence that he always attributed to Waylon Kwang-Sun Park. It made him nervous. And nervousness was normal. Nervousness mattered to Wallie. After all it was the colour-wheel of gradient of human emotions. But he didn’t want to experience nervousness like this. The cost of this burden was too great. The emotions not stellar enough – it had too many vector points burning into his skin and he didn’t appreciate it. It made him fleshy: yet without muscle composite, like a gelatinous blob ready to putrefy like stale vomit and carrions. And it was getting worse. The feeling of choking; bile-dangling on throat. Though, he did not possess bile did he? After all he did not eat as much yet – perhaps he did possess bile. Bile with a blacker, brackish tinge. More acidic than the human’s yellow-green with it silvery mix of molten smoke. Like the needling contusions of rain right now. All these thoughts made him feel hollow and full at the same time. Not a great feeling at all.

 

Waylon didn’t understand why he was being so mean. Yet now he did not acknowledge Miles’s response for it was getting too horrendous. The blurry eyes, red-hot, black and white dyed, almost he wanted to humourlessly evoke panda imagery and say that he is sterile as one in a zoo all cooped up with his own loving and lacking and not fostering anything that matters. “You are just being a total dick Miles…” Waylon just breathed, nostrils storming, “We were fine just a moment ago; can’t you try to stay fine.”

 

“That’s pretty mean yourself…” Miles almost tones down, he is hurt and it shows, the silver-black eyes look hollowed with an emptiness and Waylon regrets saying that, he knows it is not nice, now he realises that it sounds like an enormous douche-bag statement, “I mean it’s like telling a schizoid person if they can’t stop being schizoid.”

 

“I…I just mean you still have so much agency and…” Waylon looked completely frustrated, angry with himself more, “I just don’t know what to do.”

 

“This isn’t something you have to personally do. Jeez stop acting like such a guy.” It comes out off of Miles and they both look at each other a bit bemused. Well, they are both men. And it feels like Waylon, despite the way people had attempted to feminise him, was acting more gendered traditional male now than ever. Miles almost smiles; almost. Because it allows him to know how complex Waylon is. Yet the feeling distracts his pain for a moment. The lived reality is the rain feels livid and he just doesn’t know how to address it.

 

Miles starts crying.

 

It comes off slowly at first. The sobs plucked from throat to tongue; one by one, a weird sequence, a patient chronology of his body escaping him. Not knowing himself.

 

Waylon feels odd. Seeing Miles cry, not that he cannot accept this or that he is pathetic enough to think that Miles is being weak. It’s just…he usually felt down and had to reconcile himself and had to talk things through. Even with Lisa that generally happened and truthfully he was wondering what had it all come down to? Waylon was frightened and his body showed that. The curves and grooves slithered and shuddered with fear – like he was an exemplification of cardboard boxes shifting and hitting a granite wall. Waylon hugged himself for a moment. Because he wasn’t sure, despite their embraces, if Miles would actually like to be embraced now.

 

Then he braved it.

 

“Miles, I –“

 

“What?!” Through his tears the anger grated and Miles barked, “At least you have yourself Waylon! You are not a Variant and you not this! I mean you still fucking human enough!”

 

“That’s why it’s hard for me too see!” Waylon just went and lunged and grabbed Miles, his body shivered and Miles almost slumped into him, and he did then just let go and accept being held by Waylon, his body held by the gravity of an active force on Waylon’s part, his eyes were a bit unfocused and Walrider who looked from farther away actually was beginning to worry, there were static surges now on Miles’s body and Wallie was feeling some of them if not all by proxy and just felt there was too frustration on Miles. “I just!” Waylon felt out of breath but the breadth of his pain made him feel now-or-never sort of sway, “I mean look at you guys! You went through an experience and you have all the scars and I am just well mottling here as just a normal body! Am I even normal anymore?! I mean I see Rorschach inkblots a couple of times more now! I don’t know what that means! I just am confused as you! And I strain and I suffer and I feel alone in my own condition too! I get scared but have no scars, no visible ones anyway, to show what happened and I am just afraid Miles! I am just so afraid all the time!”

 

The soft gentleness near his neck – there seemed to be a slight flicker of the tip of the tongue – Waylon felt a shiver melding in with other shivers, a clout of newer sensations – and he shivered and sighed a bit when he realised that Miles just had slightly licked the nape of his neck. As though some kind of animalistic affection but tender and sensual. Then slowly Miles gained his own gravity once more; there was weight and Waylon felt it pressed onto him, even though Miles was still lying his arms resigned to be there as though his arms were a thicket and he like some lost Gothic-noir Bambi has decidedly gone there to nuzzle and snuggle. Waylon felt the hairs of his neck feel an electricity as more soft licks were planted and a slow humming came from Miles and swiftly Miles caught his hands in his a bit rough but not so brazen just urgent. Waylon shifted and their seemed to another weight but it felt oscillating with his chest as one with Miles. Waylon struggled to breathe a bit for a while, a heaviness plateaued on his own chest, he could feel as though his ribcage and his entire torso-range was submerged in water and clashing water not rapids or waves but just static-like and rippling – like rain! Waylon realised – was this what Miles was feeling? Was this some sort of tele-psychosomatic crossover? Miles helping him feel what he was feeling so that certain weights could be balanced? But the feeling was suddenly getting overpowering again. As though his chest was tightening. Miles sensed this and was trying to move away when Waylon softly held on a bit tightly. Waylon closed his eyes and centred on his feelings on nonplussed attitude towards the rain. In his mind’s eye he saw his ribcage and organs afloat and submerge but with tandem with peaceful waves and the moon hung in concordance with the sun: it was a twilight ember of a thing. And soon he saw another heart and ribcage wash in with him and they buoyed on the water and could hear distant static become like a soothing wind. Everything felt alright.

 

And then they felt each others’ breathing and soon they breathed in and out together. And so their breaths were in sync. Miles let out a moan. There was something warm and sticky he was feeling in his belly and it hovered and went over to Waylon who let out a soft sigh. It seemed sexual but then it wafted and became just comfort. Pure, unadulterated comfort. And they both sighed and breathed and sighed and breathed again. Soon there was no static around Miles, the dark-silvery electricity was gone, and Miles and Waylon had a repose. The feeling of comfort can also be overwhelming and Miles and Waylon almost slumped to the floor. It felt a bit fatiguing but then both of them smiled. Almost in sync too. Miles chuckled a bit. Slowly opening his eyes.

 

“What just happened?” Waylon asked innocently.

 

“I don’t know.” Miles responded innocently back.

 

“It felt good.” Waylon dared it, a risqué huskiness in his tone, “Like an implosion and an explosion at the same time.”

 

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Miles smirked then smiled warmly, “And as a journalist I deal with saying things better all the time.”

 

Their noises touched and they nuzzled in a bit. With hands held they closed their eyes. Foreheads pressing too. As though a bookmark in the leaves of the book of their growing emotions.

 

“Well, if you guys are done.” The voice was predominantly icy and seems to be nursing a wound, it cackled like a wild animal who hurt its tail, or singed it’s nose or whiskers, “Maybe, you can compose yourself out of the floor?”

 

Both of them looked at an irritated Eddie Gluskin whose frowned mixed in with a sense of alienation. Behind him were The Twins. Tim just pushed Eddie aside with a bit of a scowl, “Sorry, we would have come sooner but Walrider, or Wallie, told us to wait a bit.”

 

“We heard things breaking…” Tom said a but pressingly and then looked around, “And things do seem effectively broken.” Looking at some of the mess. The discarded artefacts of some hidden battle between two souls (or was it three, the Walrider included partly, two and a half then?) fighting to establish something that would be normal communication again.

 

“Whoever owns this house will not be too pleased.” Tim snorts and laughs a bit, his head moved and he almost clasps his mouth, half-clasping it, his eyes, the slits at the end, look towards Eddie who is breathing low and stable but in has a predatory aura, as though he wishes to silently stalk and then pounce. They know these feelings. They had been mutually shared. But the tides were always changing. No prey here to be sought. Only, stalemates on confusion. So the prefatory shuffles between what he can do? Tim laughed a bit slowly and said, “Well, maybe we should get to eating soon.” Then looking at Eddie with a vehement stare, “C’mon, you are going to help out.” Tom looks at his older brother with some surprise but then feels something, an unuttered consensus of feeling, then smiled and puts his hands on his hips. “I mean we can’t cook everyday on our own even if we somewhat enjoy. It’s more practical to divide and share the labour understood. Besides, aside cooking and cleaning we three don’t have much to do now do we?”

 

Tim posited this question and Tom just snickered. Eddie Gluskin did not look really taken aback; he looked a bit bruised, his pride and his alertness, but then he shrugged: “Sure, whatever. I am here to help in a way anyways.”

 

They all exit the room not before Tim winks at both Miles and Waylon. They both look a bit amused, a bit uncertain, but then they realise it is for the best. The feeling of Eddie’s jealousy or annoyance and both somewhat reverberates and Miles wondered if it was good choice making out with a murderer when his heart was really slowly melting to Waylon. Well, it wasn’t the wisest move to be assured but at the same time, he just felt really lonely. And Eddie looked lonesome too. Yet, he wondered if Eddie was more concerned about him or Waylon? Or, both? Was both an option? Was Eddie attuned to them both? Well, he knew that he still needed to apologise to Eddie. Because, just…because it was the right thing to do and it was ethically solvent and decent after all it is true that neither he nor Eddie made proclamations of a relationship, however, they did do sexual acts with each other. And they didn’t even agree it was only a “one-night-stand” sort of situation either. So, yeah they had to look at as well. Even if it was just a series of sexual acts, well, Eddie had helped him back there to settle down a lot more. Miles couldn’t overlook and act all indifferent to that.

 

“I think Eddie is gonna be sore.” Waylon says this very quietly, as though carefully, “Look, uhmm, I don’t know if you have a relationship with him fu – “

 

“ I don’t.” Miles says this very quickly, intonating on the words as stressfully as possible, even with his rapid answer.

 

“Still, I mean…” Waylon, clasps his hands a bit and moves them a bit, he is nervous and Miles read it, “I mean, you guys have been doing some physically intimate things.” Looking up with all the true decency and innocence that could be housed in the world by his mere mortality, “I think he deserves some explanation.”

 

“Yeah,” Miles breathes out, ruffles his own hair, scratches his neck, prickling with some guilt of suddenness in interaction, “True to that.”

 

“I am glad he is only sore though.”

 

Waylon’s tone of relief and some hope, yes hope, makes him look at the older man with the enduring chestnut hair and grey-rain eyes, looking at his physique, his facial contours, reminded Miles always of various seasons, now Waylon was a chilly yet warm autumnal, Damn, that man is for the lack of the better word, fuck you Upshur for not being able to write though you are a journalist…he’s just truly bodily gorgeous…the subtly of his details measures in well with the explicitness of them…he just is both foam and wave in beauty…

 

Waylon sees Miles staring and thinks he is waiting for an explanation, “Oh, I mean…” Miles also stops staring and realises they are on the same page, which was excitable in its own way, the effort needed to catch up generates the perfect stimulus to earn an appetite of other kinds, both sensual and the intellectual with that knot of emotional, “You know he isn’t raging.” The tempo shifts, there is a sadness now, a little dark cloud, “I mean he was mad at me back at the asylum and he chased me calling me a whore and what not and tried to hang me for my supposed disloyalties.” Waylon looks pained, “I would never want you to go through that. More than emasculating it is actually painful to your human identity in general. It just hurts.”

 

Then a silver lining comes in the evocation of a caress by Miles, pushing a loose strand of hair from Waylon’s chestnut locks, he could feel the side burns and some tinge of rough, unaligned facial hair also underneath some of those silky strands but they were grunge halftones to the silk. Made the aesthetics perfect. “Do you think with a Walrider around he would fuck with me?”

 

“Well, thank you, for finally acknowledging me.” Both Waylon and Miles looked at an exasperated Wallie looking pretty sour himself, “I mean sometimes you guys just treat me as background noise don’t ya? I have you know Miles your bullshitting back there had an effect on me. So, don’t leave me in the suspense of your tantrum furies okay.”

 

Both of them blinked and Miles started, “I am sorry –“

 

“You know what you are apologising to already one person here. I don’t want to interrupt anyone else’s thunder as they say. I will let you do all these things and go to Eddie. You and I are inseparable so we can well you know talk later about our problems.” Wallie just hmphed and walked away leaving both Miles and Waylon look. And after he disappeared they had to look at each other and start chuckling

 

“Well, it’s nice to know he has pride enough to want to be acknowledged.” Miles commented, fixing his hair and still caressing Waylon’s.

 

“It feels strange; back in the asylum, initially, Wallie was killing inmates and he even attacked me. But then he passed me and I was thinking what is happening. I think Wallie has always been evolving and this proves it.” Waylon touched Miles’s caressing hand, “I mean, he doesn’t seem to be the phantasm I knew him to be…it’s so funny communicating with this entity who was both monster and spirit in an asylum.”

 

Miles looked tenderly at Waylon, “You look fascinating when you are fascinated.”

 

“Huh…?” Waylon almost blushed, pressed his hand a bit harder on Miles, “I am glad then you can appreciate my fascination with fascination.”

 

Miles laughed a bit. Then he let go. Not as a willingness resignation rather a form of breach; a mired interaction approaching: “I don’t know what happened between us.”

 

“I have been trying to avoid talking about it.” Waylon looked away, then bore deeply, seriously in Miles’s eyes, a clinging to desperate solace, a recognition at explanation, “I can’t think this as A from B, no theoretical ifs and stuff. I don’t want to think like that about this. As I usually think. As I have been trained to think. This tautological manner of thinking won’t do any good. This is more complex than mere mathematics, it includes it, but goes beyond it.” Waylon got Miles’ hands in his again. Miles eagerly touched back as Waylon looked down for a second then up again, “I am sorry Miles. I am glad it happened but…I don’t have the energy to explain it. I just don’t at the moment.”

 

“To be open and honest, neither do I.” Miles pressed a bit harder, his singular focus on the grooves and hairlines, gravity of bones in Waylon’s compass of muscles and tendons, “All I know it felt like we were one pair of ribcages beating against something; we were one, we became one, and I loved that feeling. It felt so fucking, right.” Miles emphasised each word as though it was poetic yearning and Waylon’s throat caught a bit of a gasp.

 

“I am sorry Waylon…” Miles said it first, “The way I acted back there.”

 

“I don’t think an apology was needed by you, you made it right and…” Waylon held theirs hands stronger together, “I am really sorry Miles. I am to blame. I should have focused out of myself, stop being an idiot, and just accept what has happened to you as unique to you and well, uniquely hurtful as well in some aspects. I thought maybe if we suffered the same we could well you know have an understanding. It is my wrong bridge to encounter. I know sameness doesn’t always breed similar feelings. Just because our bodies have faced the engine differently doesn’t mean we have to feel so different about each other. I should always remember that you are going through the same shit I am going through, compounded by ten.”

 

“At times, yours is compounded by ten, Waylon…” Miles admitted slowly making Waylon look while rubbing his shoulder, “Waylon, I reflected what you had to say…you, you do feel left out and being someone with no visible scars, has its advantages, but it is also tough. You miss a lot of things. You miss having more definable responsibilities I know.” Waylon nodded, it was a relief knowing Miles understood, “You liked being a father and taking care of people but I know it frustrates you because we are not children but you are trying to help ground us but you yourself are not grounded. From what you told me you had been feeling this way before your divorce with Lisa but…but now it’s been multiplied too. You don’t know what to do. You don’t how to do what you do know you can be able to do. And your body may not be Variant but it is more different than before. I understand you just feel sad and don’t know what to do in general. At least Eddie knows what to do, The Twins do, I have some ideas, but you are like a bit alone.”

 

Waylon couldn’t help himself. He had to go and embrace Miles. Miles was aback a bit but he returned the embrace. “Oh Miles…” Waylon was almost sobbing, then a few tears slid down, “I am so happy I can count on you. That despite whatever we are going through, you are countable. You are there, tethered between an edge and a warm place like some cottage in the woods of this fucked up ambience and I am just glad.”

 

Miles had a few tears too. They came out as he embraced Waylon a bit more deeply — the smell of this man was intoxicating and beautiful, but his tears, Miles felt he could _smell_ his tears. The scent of them was palpable honesty and it had the scent of petrichor mixed with some after musk of heat as though thunder grumbling in retreat. Human tears are miniature rain-makers? Miles felt inundated with a sense of affirmation. But it was also from Waylon’s body language. Waylon just grabbed on. Ironically, he too could smell a pheromone signature in Miles’s tears. “Uh, I can smell your tears…”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“The engine sure did a number on us.”

 

“Waylon.” Miles looked at him, “Do you really think that the engine makes us closer?”

 

“I –uh, it does give a starting –“ Waylon started but Miles looked irked.

 

“No.” Miles caressed his cheek, “Waylon you are the _whistleblower_ , _my_ whistleblower — you could recognise what was wrong with Murkoff just by working there for like a month when people don’t do in years and you helped my research to fuck on them which I carried on for years. You and I didn’t need to meet each other. The email, which reifies our values, manifests what we treasure and that brought us together.”  Then slowly rubbing a strand of his hair, “As much as you think it, I know you might, the engine or the asylum may have catalysed our meeting but it wasn’t the source of origins.”

 

“I have been a fan of your work for some time.” Waylon smiled, and he tousled Miles’ s hair, feeling the deep roots of rich bark brown on them, his forest of solitude, “I would wanted to ask you out for coffee anyways one day. I was hoping we could talk. I went to your personal email once but I was a bit afraid to send you an email. But, that’s the thing…” Waylon chuckled and nipped Miles’s nose, making him shocked for a moment, then smile as bright as the sun, “I was just a _fan_ of your _work_ then. I never knew you as a person. I saw your work reflected a great part of you but now knowing you personally I like you, more. “

 

“Well, yeah such feelings always go beyond words, they also include words that are not always written, words that are nonverbal, and monikers huh, algorithm-insomniac.” Miles kissed Waylon’s throat and Waylon’s throat trembled, bobbed up and down, at both the sensual pleasurable gesture but also a realisation.

 

“Wait…you _know_?” Waylon looked on.

 

“I got it a couple of days ago, that you were a commenter on some of my independent published work, some of the phrases you used recently matched with some of those comments.” Miles smiled, “They were exceptional comments Waylon I have been a _fan_ for some time now too. And I was also afraid to respond to a witty person. Now I see wit and beyond wit, someone I can so much depend on that it hurts to know that you exist, but I didn’t have a chance to meet you till now. _How_ did I manage without you? _Why_ did I manage with you? – that’s why it hurts. But I think when I talk with you like this it goes away, the hurt, it goes away because you are here _now_ and I plan to transmute that hurt into something you can pour into me too.”

 

Waylon and Miles both blinked.

 

It sounded as though, in a way, both of them had made a declaration of a newly growling affection, or love.

 

Their throats tighten.

 

A pause emerges between them.

 

But it’s a wind, a wave — it’s not awkward. They are still in a half-tight embrace. Their faces touch as they hug again a bit deeply. Waylon smells the papery, woody smell of Miles and wishes to put it into some form of coffee and tea and drink it each morning, noon and night to just know how a kind of happiness can feel like. Miles feel exactly the same.

 

“Maybe,” Waylon looks up, “We should help in the kitchen. After all that happened. It’s important we make the guys comfortable.”

 

“You don’t only mean Eddie.” Miles asks, not mischievously, not accusingly, just genuinely.

 

“Of course you know it can’t only be Eddie. Miles, Tim and Tom cook for us and even clean the spaces we mostly inhabit. They aren’t our servants. I know they respect us and I wanna respect them in kind. It isn’t their job to always clean up after our mess. I feel even we inconvenience them with our mood swings. Of all of us they had been the most normally behaved and most patient. Not me. Or, you. And not Eddie or Wallie. I want them to know they are valuable to us. I think they also have the frustrations we have, sexual, mental, physical. More so as they have been encaged their whole lives. I find it unfair to them when we behave like this. They are counting on us too I think. To help them a bit settle down in the outside world. And we are setting selfish examples rather than what they hoped and needed from us.”

 

“Yeah you are right.” Miles agreed.

 

They both started to head to the kitchen which had it’s own situations unfolding.

 

The Twins and Eddie were working on dinner.

 

And Eddie was cutting fish as though he was castrating them in a way making Tom cringe and Tim get annoyed enough to put a foot down after a while.

 

“Look, this isn’t some competition you know.” Tim took on an official paternal tone, Tom looked a bit puzzled but then just nodded along, “If you care about either of them you should understand they need each other too. You cannot have your infatuations damage what you know to be true. That they need some spaces together as well. They are different than us. We are patients and they are not. You can’t expect them to gauge this the same way we do. To us, this was expected in a way. We know we were in shit and knew shit would hit the fans all the time. They didn’t know. They are starting to know. It is cumbersome but endure.”

 

“Now, I know Father Martin is dead.” Eddie snorted angrily as he dived his knife into the fish too hard, making a slice, not so perfect, jagged around the head, salmon – a pastoral favourite, “That fucker has relocated his spirit into you’s twos.”

 

“Martin was a good man.” Tom commented, on instinct, the cleaver he carried came upright from the cucumbers and tomatoes and just was readied, Tim noticed this but didn’t say any word, unless needed, “A priest makes clothes for your soul; a dressmaking makes vanity for the flesh. I say you are as vain as they come Eddie Gluskin. Your looks are not so covetable as you want them to be.”

 

“Fuck both ya twats.” Eddie dived in hard, making fish scales and meat splatter out of the cutting board and some fall to the ground as a slaughter.

 

“Waylon would really approve of you now.” Tim just shrugged and looked away.

 

“Fuck ya say!” Eddie almost went up to the older Twin with the knife only to blocked by the younger one with the large cleaver.

 

“Who are you angry about?” Tim folded his arms, as both he and his brother started Eddie down, “Are you angry it’s Miles and Waylon? Are you angry at Miles or Waylon? Or, both of them? Look, we all know you kinda have an infatuation on Miles too. You two surprisingly got a bit along. And, personally, you should say something. Who do you want? I know you may want to fuck Miles but your heart is with Waylon right? You like Miles because he is just raw sex something you don’t know without being abused. And you love Waylon because he understands you which is not so common but at the same time reminds you about family. You should think what do you really want and who do you really want to pursue because the way you are seeing them is different. But remember this, you need more than that view to be with them. They are not dresses designed for specific purposes they are people and you can’t sew threads in them rather you all are sewn by what actions and feelings you play with.”

 

Eddie didn’t know how to respond to that. Quietly, he took a few moments, “I am attracted to Miles. Miles is the cosmopolitan man, a good enough civilian and reliable person, he is what civilisation today needs or wants. Miles has the right attitude. Miles knows how to talk and right. Miles is a _gentleman_ of another sort. I can aspire to be like him. I am an antiquated motherfucker living with antiquated and useless shit. Miles doesn’t need those shit. Waylon, Waylon is, Waylon is my love.” That last statement had no doubt, total conviction, “Waylon isn’t a woman and I love him as a man. Waylon is what everyone in any age should give thought of being. Waylon knows values as in he knows also how to value. He isn’t necessarily as cosmopolitan as Miles but he doesn’t need to be. Waylon can be more self-contained and unique than Miles. Waylon had become my love. You aren’t wrong…” he continues, “Perhaps I was also making them suit my purpose but I do recognise that they are individuals who are beyond that. But I am still learning that. And, I am confused. I want to at times…” Eddie rubbed his neck, “I want to do things with both of them. Because I love Miles in a way too even if it is lesser than Waylon okay.”

 

“Pffft.” Tom chided and stopped arming himself with a cleaver, “You are too rambunctious. You can only choose one of them.” Then with a grin, “If you ask me you can probably love Miles more in the end I mean…you never know.”

 

“Well, at least you are honest about what you are feeling, but feelings will change. I think you will end up loving Waylon and wanting to be with him.” Tom went back to boiling the rice and then putting some of the vegetables into the mix as Tim was cutting them, added an egg or two, “But Eddie what you may want now, you might change it later.”

 

Eddie was going back when he saw Miles and Waylon appear, “We come to help.” Miles announced.

 

“Wow, group kitchen meet, fascinating.” Tom said.

 

“I am trying to make fried rice and hoping chicken with some light gravy will go good with it.” Tim says, he looks a bit quizzical, but he has intentions.

 

“I know making some long brittle noodles will compliment the softness of the rice. We should make some soy sauced stuff to mix it with the noodles. I will help.” Waylon says, doesn’t fully meet Eddie’s eyes at first, but then does and nods, Eddie nods back. Miles come up to him. They both stare. For some time. Then they shrugged and started hacking the fish in turns.

 

“Well don’t mind me.” Wallie appeared, “I went to get some fresh air and well, it’s still raining a bit…but now it feels like ripples.”

 

“Here!” Miles throws a pot at the Walrider, “Practice holding that.” Miles smiles, “You can at least try to grip it without breaking it.”

 

Dinner commenced. Wallie had only succeeded in denting the pot other than that he couldn’t grab it as great but Waylon encouraged him saying practice makes perfect. The Twins talked about reading books with Miles. Eddie listened in on the Walrider’s complaints and teased him a bit, but then eventually encouraging him as Waylon had as well.

 

The dinner had family written all over it.

 

They felt it in their bones (so did the Walrider in his static-bones).

 

Everything felt peaceful.

 

The rain stopped after a while.

 

 

Wallie and The Twins went outside to see pools of water being reflected in the moonlight. Hear stray birds call. See wet dragonflies with netted wings fly off. Soon the cicadas, the ones who did survive and may die soon, for approaching winter, gave out last calls as last calls, wills and testimonies, to their lives. Miles watched Wallie and The Twins pick up uprooted branches and flowers, an insect or two. Miles felt he was in a dream. The moon light permeating through night and rainwater made an ethereal glow. As though they were in some secret garden, a fairies and elves’ garden.

 

Waylon observed too but then returned as he had offered to do the cleaning. Eddie had joined in. They didn’t talk. But Eddie just banged pots a bit loudly. Made the plates clang. Huffed and puffed as if he was blowing some symbolic house down. After a while they finished and Waylon made some tea for all of them and gave it The Twins and Miles as well. Miles and The Twins went upstairs with Wallie, who was being fed some of the tea from Miles’s cup, as he said he wanted to try. Waylon sat in the living room, the doors were slightly closed, and Eddie joined in. The tension within them was becoming like eggshells you could break as a million bubble wraps all popping at once, only you had shrapnel as egg shells.

 

Then, suddenly, Eddie threw a small pillow of his comfy sofa-chair right at a bookshelf. That was when Waylon knew it was time to talk.

 

“What are you so angry about?” Waylon looked Eddie dead in the eye, “You sucked off Miles, I saw okay. All I did was hug him.”

 

Eddie opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t counter that, it was the truth, “I just had some…needs. It was just needs, okay.”

 

“Don’t try to cover this up as the generic _man_.” Waylon looked annoyed, “This isn’t a groom or bride issue. I ain’t your bride okay nor your groom!” Waylon looked angry and his anger scared Eddie a bit. “You and I aren’t a thing okay, it isn’t fair of you to act like an asshole just because you like me. I need Miles too, Miles and I have a good connection. And this whole jealousy act of yours, drop it. I mean if you want Miles that’s fine…” Waylon struggled along the last bit, the breathed in and continued, “But you can’t expect me to be yours too if you like Miles. That’s unfair to me and Miles.”

 

“So, you need Miles?” Eddie approached and Waylon got a bit tensed so Eddie stopped midway, he didn’t want friction, not this kind anyways, “Don’t you need me?” Eddie slowly walked forward and slowly raised his hand, it was placed, warmly on Waylon’s left cheek, cupping that side of his face, “I will fuck anyone and anything up for you Waylon. I won’t do that for Miles but I would certainly do that for you.”

 

Waylon looked a bit stunned. It was a partial, if not complete, declaration of a love and he did know how to respond. This was new terrain for him. Being so sexual with potent strangers or rather friends in process. Especially other males. Waylon had been shy and he had mostly been interested in girls, but more or less demisexual. It was Miles who mentioned biromantic tendencies and more or less a bisexual orientation but preferred more heterosexual attachments till recently. But Waylon knew he had a response, “That’s exactly what I don’t want and need right now. The potential for internal or intra-spaced violences.”

 

Eddie let his hand drop softly. This wasn’t disappointment. It was an effort in communication. Then his voice was low, rough but with some smoothness in delivery as well, it was a husky growl mixed with velvet suppleness, “But I wish to be tender, mostly, but I don’t know if…” his hand suddenly zipped Waylon’s jeans and Waylon grabbed his hands in utter shock, “Something to be done like this or not.”

 

Before Waylon can make a protest Eddie full-fledged kissed him on his mouth. Waylon’s partially opened lips were soon more opened of not fully by the eager tongue of Eddie Gluskin. Eddie didn’t start full way, he slowly twirled his tongue on Waylon’s as if he was preparing both of them. Waylon didn’t respond instead just breathed in a bit deep with his mouth and a sharp inhale to exhale as he felt Eddie stroking playfully, with feathery nimble fingers the head of his penis. The residual tension and memory of being with Miles compounded with the air and tension now and he suddenly got slightly erect. The swirling tongued mouth gave a half-smile and proceeded to clasp mouth on mouth, not too hard, not too soft. There was a moan that reverberated from Eddie’s mouth that made Waylon “mmhhh” and sigh a bit. Eddie closed his eyes almost instantly. Waylon’s eyes were large, then they got slightly hooded. The hands on the hands of the other relaxed if not fully disengaged. After a moment, the deep kiss was severed but made secure by a small trail of saliva, an umbilical of mixed feelings.

 

“Eddie…” it was said with half reproach, half surprise and half curiosity.

 

“Even if I know I might not be the right one…for now…” Eddie sighed, breathed in deep as he nibbled once, twice Waylon’s throat and then looked at Waylon again, “Can I just do this for now?” Waylon gave a shrug, Eddie took it as an “okay, but…” and he was okay with the “okay, but…” statement rather than any no or yes, “Don’t worry, I will just make it a bit quick.”

 

Waylon looked on curiously when Eddie took him in his mouth. This man who had once tried to hurt him, call his intimate parts ‘vulgar’, well now, he has decidedly crouched down to suck him on in a rhythmic fellatio. Waylon slowly grabbed the sides of Eddie’s hair and moaned out soft as Eddie slowly and tentatively swallowed him whole and got off and in and…it was driving Waylon all around in his head. There was sexual frustration in him, Waylon knew this and he blushed a bit ashamed that his body was eager to get this attention. Yet Waylon knew all he had to say was “stop” and Eddie would not resist. Eddie would unhinge his mouth and wipe it and look on with a smile. So, when in a few moments, Waylon could feel an immense pressure in his nether regions he tightly grabbed Eddie’s shoulders, “Eddie, I am gonna –“

 

Yet Eddie looked him dead on – looked him with that quiet determination…and Waylon released…Eddie ate him out…finally pulled off his mouth and licked a trail of whitish-translucent liquid and swallowed hard again and look up with a smile, “Now, isn’t that a wonderful taste.” Then with half-closed eyes, getting up, embracing Waylon, “I think I am gonna cum too just by sucking you off Waylon. You tasted really good. Like something missing in my life found again. But at the same time something already there. Waylon, I am sorry…” then he bored into Waylon’s eyes, which were a bit confused yet curious, “I just needed to see you…see that part of you…I know you don’t trust me fully and I respect that. I just, I know a big part of me loves you. Maybe. Right now. I am not good enough but I will be.”

 

“Eddie it’s not really about being good enough or…you can’t assess your worth on my words…” Waylon looked on at a smiling Eddie who interrupted.

 

“I am not saying it merely for you…” Eddie cupped Waylon’s face and Waylon instinctively, quickly grabbed his hand, Eddie smiled knowingly, and gave the assuring look and Waylon realised that Eddie wasn’t trying to hurt him, “Violence isn’t the answer.” Eddie caressed Waylon’s face and gave a small yet supple kiss on his cheek, half-sucking the flesh there, “I need to know what is to salvage myself, what can be salvaged, and start anew.”  Then, with ample consideration, he moved away, given both of them some good amount of space between them, “I am sorry Waylon.” Eddie said quietly, with a lot of sincerity, that sincerity surprised Waylon, “I didn’t mean to make you so nervous.” This was softly addressed.

 

Waylon realised his hand and legs had started shaking, in low-range tremors, and he realised what was the point of origin, so he steadied himself a bit, “It’s adrenalin and nervousness cocktail.” Then with a wolfish grin that Eddie found alarmingly sexual yet so multidimensional that his breath got caught, “My body is aware of our shared past. But it won’t respond with flight anymore and it will decimate if you try anything.”

 

“If I was to be killed by anything Waylon, I rather be killed by you trying to protect yourself.” Eddie said this sincerely too which somewhat made Waylon a bit moved but readdress the situation pointing at his abdomen.

 

“You already were once, in a way…”

 

Eddie looked at the place, still taut with psycho-somatic and physical scars of being almost stabbed to death by the pulley weights of his own fashioning, where he hung people out, people who in some ways he knew, like the women before the mutilated men, wouldn’t satiate him, because…well, he was never satiated with himself, “Well, back then, it was me considering it a failure nothing really poetic as your basic need to survive.” Eddie smiled on, “But now I can appreciate that, as I appreciate you, you are really one of the very best Waylon.”

 

Then giving a small curtsy of something like “take care” expression Eddie left making Waylon look on a bit softly, a bit ponderingly. Then after a moment or two of pausing his actions he reached down to zip his jeans and fix himself before heading to one of the upstairs libraries.

 

The entire interaction, or episode, made him think…why had he just, allowed, was it a form of balance (Miles having done the same)? No, not entirely (and Eddie knows this as well) — it was, well, it was accepting Eddie’s need for change…and, he hasn’t seen anyone so boldly, in a long time, desire him. With Miles things were definitely complex. To see Eddie respect his dick and treat it as something natural and not vulgar made him swallow and stop in his tracks (both then and at present) and accept the blowjob. Such a 180° on what he wanted to do then and what he just did now puzzled Waylon. Not that people change so easily. Or, that he was letting his guard down just ‘cause of that. There was no way. After all Eddie made his life miserable not too long ago. But he would be a complete asshole to not acknowledge in slight what Eddie did. Eddie made him feel wanted. A visceral and spiritual part of him wanted to be sexually attractive, it helped normalise something, just probably an essence of being human, because Walrider blowjobs are somewhat still on the periphery of normal. Though Waylon still scratched his head.

 

Out of the left corner library he heard Tim and Tom talk with Wallie, who asked a genuine question, “Well, Matilda seems like a nice name. And I like her power. This telekinesis is pretty awesome.”

 

Tim inhaled, “I wonder if Carrie by Stephen King is a warped version of Matilda, I read both books while I was here and Carrie seems to be what Matilda would be if her family and life were a different kind of messed up.”

 

“That pig blood scene you talked about, how she loses control, I feel bad for her…it’s like all she wanted was respect. I can’t say I feel very sorry for all those assholes she killed.” Tom talks and hears a sharp retort from Wallie and Tim.

 

“Now, now…” Wallie starts, “I know I basically am a Carrie too if you think about it. I mean I caused some sort of chaos too in the asylum but I rather be a Matilda.”

 

“Really, why is that?” Tim asked amused and Waylon can hear his own amusement come out and mix with Tom’s sigh though he is still holding the wooden banisters of the staircase, all of them wrapped in the Walrider’s train of thoughts. It was the complete reverse of the Morphogenic engine planning as Waylon figured thus he loved this moment even more.

 

“Well, uhm,” Waylon sensed nervousness in Wallie’s voice, “Well, Matilda gets to be with Miss Honey. She gets a family and she gets to keep her secrets, her private life from people who wouldn’t understand or try to. But Carrie, I just feel she is punished for things she is not really responsible for.”

 

After a long pause, (that answer made all of them, even Waylon outside, feel touched), Tim coughed a bit then began, “Do you think you are living a bit in Carrie’s reality Wallie?”

 

“Well, lemme see, yeah.” Wallie sighed deep, “Religious cult-like behaviour, Billy’s mind using me as a telekinetic projectile, blood all around, the asylum as bad as the pig-blood prom, me being punished or materialised for actions that are not truly my own. I think I already lived like Carrie. If I ever meet Stephen King I wanna tell him thanks I moved along your dreams you know. But now I wanna graduate to Matilda.”

 

“Miles doesn’t seem, well though he is observant, as Miss Honey.” Tom laughed.

 

“Nah, Matilda can be both me and Miles, Waylon is Miss Honey.” Walrider spoke confidently.

 

Waylon just stopped for a while and then slowly walked past the library door, all blushing profusely. His footsteps were soft but the three on the other side of the door were preternaturally éclat in hearing and so Tom smiled and whispered, rather naughtily, “I think you made Mr Honey know what an eager little bee you are.”

 

Walrider blushed too, “Well, he is Mr Honey. Waylon is a very different person. I like how empathetic and patient he is.”

 

Tim nods, “So, do you wish he was your host?”

 

“Not really, I mean not all the time.” Wallie scratches his head.

 

“Why not?” Tom asked, curious at such a quick resignation.

 

“Probably then I might be too enamoured by him and make ourselves feel sexual a lot of the time.”  Wallie grins, his dark canines flash making both the Twins chuckle.

 

“But you feel an affection for Miles? Do you not?” Tim pushed forward, curious as ever.

 

“Yeah, but…” Wallie spoke, “I mean I chose Miles out of survival, so, I already had registered he and myself as somewhat the same creature if that makes sense. Like he is a part of me and I him or we both share the same feelings.” The Twins nodded and Wallie continued, “But as you guys I am used to seeing Miles as a spate person so I guess that’s why I feel this way.”

 

“It’s not a bad feeling.” Tim nodded. “Matilda loves Miss Honey because they have similar interests, but, you can see they respect each other as individuals.” There is an eye-contact between the Twins, Wallie notices but does not comment.

 

“Yeah after all Carrie implodes when she cannot be seen as separate from her mother by her own mother.” Tom just shrugs, “I guess sometimes you just need that link and also aside that too.”

 

Wallie looks at another book, he tries to pick it up but singes off the top left part of the cover, “Oh, fuck me!” The Twins look in surprised as they see him curse, “Can you guys pick up this book, called, what the fuck is a BFG?”

 

“It says Big, Friendly Giant…” Tom points out, “That’s book by Dahl too. So is this…” Tom pulls out a book from the nearby table, “Fantastic Mr Fox.”

 

“Read them to me, they seem cool…” Wallie looks happily at the titles and the Twins sigh and Tom starts reading The BFG. Though out of the corners of their eyes they sometimes glance at each other.

 

Waylon walked in to the second study. While passing he could hear Eddie shifting slightly in the room he was in. Waylon decided not to wonder what Eddie could be doing. But he heard some scribbling and pushing of keyboard keys in the study so he opened to look at Miles, look at things. “Hey,” Miles smiled, “I was wondering where you were…” then pointing to the books Waylon had skimmed on before, “It’s nice to see you had been reading up a bit on Norse mythology.”

 

“Eddie gave me a blowjob.” It came out before Waylon could even close the door. Then he closed it. Held the knob and looked at a affected Miles.

 

Miles looked like he was going to say “what” in a laughing way, but then smirked slightly, “Well, last time I checked that wasn’t really part of Norse mythology.”  Then he did laugh a bit, “I understand. I mean I did the same.” Miles winked, “I am not mad at you if this makes you happy, even in a way.”

 

“It did.” Waylon confessed, then continued, “But I didn’t solely let it happen for that.” Clasping his hands, “Eddie kinda made a declaration of love and he was nice and trying and at that moment Miles I didn’t know how to say no, for both our sakes.”

 

“I know how that feels.” Miles gestured Waylon to sit next to him, he did and Miles immediately brought his face close and rubbed their noises together, making Waylon sigh then smile and hold Miles’s hand loosely and Miles did the same, “I mean I caved to that same pressure too. Being wanted like that makes you feel a bit –“

 

“Better. Normal.” Waylon finished, then with a small pause, edging forward, kissed close lips of Miles Upshur, “Well, I just feel that way too.”

 

Miles was a bit surprised by the kiss but he then slowly tongued Waylon’s throat getting a gasp from the other, and slowly rubbing his hands on top of Waylon’s jeans, “Yeah.” Then he stopped as Waylon rubbed a bit of his.

 

“I wanna wait a bit.” Waylon blushed.

 

“Me too.” Miles blushed back.

 

But Waylon kissed and bit Miles’s neck too making Miles give a soft moan, “I wanna do it more nicely…” Waylon’s words were a bit nervous. Damn. It made Miles hard. But the with determination, “I wanna be, well first time, me as…” Waylon looked away a bit, “We are gonna take turns.”

 

“Vers all the way.” Miles giggled and rubbed his nose against Waylon’s again, “Fine you call first shots. I respect that.”  Miles then had to look away, “Thinking about it, you in me. Dammit, I want it in me already.” Then looking back huskily, “I bet it’s nice. And I will suck it better than Gluskin any day.”

 

“Let’s not talk about this…” Waylon started breathing heavily, “Hearing you talk like that will make me _cum_ Miles.”

 

“That’s what any investigate journalist I think.” Miles kissed and licked the side of Waylon’s neck making him tremble, “To have their words bring out, seduce out, some kinds of truth don’t ya think?”

 

His hand went inside Waylon’s t-shirt and slowly pinched a nipple and then slowly moved it to lick it, “Miles don’t…I mean…” Waylon was now erect again. The hardness beating in conjunction with his heart.

 

“Well, okay.” Miles realised Waylon had also put his hand on his pants, and started stroking and grabbing a bit hard, “I guess I won’t be a tease and neither shall you.” He pushed off Waylon’s hands quickly as well. They both giggled slightly. Though their hearts were in sync for restlessness. Both breathed in deeply, careful about each other, Miles had to unbutton his button shirt a bit, Waylon pulled at his tee-shirt’s circular neckline. They both chuckled as they did this. How funny it was all this rush of lust and adrenalin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Waylon and Miles are doing stuff ;) I hope you like where this is going. As for more invasive actions as to Murkoff and all that is happening like pretty soon. I know this cabin by the woods part has taken over 10 chapters but I originally did not plan it that way. It just happened because I thought it would do good to flesh out some interpersonal relationships or interactions before all of them knew what they might bring to the table. Also Waylon clasping his hands out of nervousness took that from Tien XD but he reminded me that I do the same shit as Waylon so thanks there Tien. 
> 
> If you have any questions or comments, please by all means lemme know. Hope I update soon chapter 22! See ya guys next time :)


	22. Brackets, Intensities, Billet-doux on a Solar Flare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment you guys have probably been waiting for ;)

 

**Brackets, Intensities, Billet-doux on a Solar Flare**

 

Darian had been observing a bit. At first he wasn’t sure if the intel had been totally correct. Then he found signs of it being _more_ than totally correct. But he extrapolated carefully. After all he couldn’t gauge what this particular Walrider’s talents were. This Walrider, XY6, had a very deep connection with his host. A bit like himself. But he wasn’t sure what range of abilities this fucker would have. There were some cache of interests or characteristics most Walriders in common had — like they had a heightened sense of awareness, of smell, of some violent instinct that made fight or flight get augmented almost exaggerated to slapstick comedy (at least that’s how Darian saw it), and they are protective, more than the regular, hostilely possessive of their hosts. Truth is that some Walriders were still different, some of them had been selfish as in not so keen on their hosts’ survival as long as they get to be gluttonous and kill as many things as possible. Some show disingenuousness in their swarm patterns as in they moved slower than their hosts and were later on dissipated by the weight of their own confusions. But Walriders had one flaw. A very deep flaw as Wernicke postulated but Murkoff found to be actually quite efficient, though Darian working as a host for a few years, knew this was a flaw as well. Walriders didn’t understand human behaviour or emotions too well. This sometimes delayed how they see what a human thought as in they attacked only on a single refrain or just a word command even before it’s semantics were fully registered by the human themselves. This actually made sudden impulse control really hard to do as anyone perfectly sane could also become insane when all of their emotions were materialising in some ink-blot swarm patch, needy and violent, in front of them.

 

Wernicke said Murkoff found a workaround. And this was true. Murkoff’s workaround was putting the subjects in a dream-like state so that information, at least conscious information, would be lowered and the Walrider had some time getting used to how a human can operate. Walrider XY6 was one of the first Walriders to get into a human body which was not under a dream spell but was more or less cognizant. The result was that this particular Walrider was a bit unstable. Darian saw the episode, partly, with the cows. It was the smell of that meat going swish and flick that both he and Habrok picked up on. Habrok had been more than eager joining the slaughter yet Darian reigned him in and promised he could go and kill some farmers later on which actually made Habrok happier. It was the cows that alerted Darian a bit that Miles and Waylon were nearby; he hadn’t fully expected the other variants so he stayed low. Truth was, he had made surveillance act first and foremost. And he hadn’t reported to Murkoff either that he had found the people they were looking for. Darian had his own methods of working things out; he loved observing prey but now he also loved observing some of the people involved here.

 

Waylon was adorable. There was no doubt about it. Waylon could pull handsome and adorable at the same time. Darian envied that, but was fascinated by it. He couldn’t do this. When he dressed up in his boy-lolita wear he was shouta thick and thin and then when he wore leather he was a bit rugged: the states were more or less isolated or insulated in one border but Waylon was able reach out and combine the two. Like some sort of set theorem shit that Darian remembered was being talked about with Helen Granat and Danielle Austen. Then his own counsellor or rather coercive counsellor, Ritika Sundaram, had talked about mathematics sets before as well. Ritika had a PhD in mathematics and a masters in psychology. And they had had sex a few times. Ritika was one of his favourite people because Ritika was always interesting and not boring at all. Interesting as in he could see the effort, the sheer talent she put in understanding herself, and understanding her situations. Which he felt was a bit uncommon along their own lot. Along their own lot the need for control, agency and purpose dominated more than self assessment as in self was assessed but only by one’s own methods and criticism constructed was usually directed towards something of a similar sort. Ritika had been a bit different as him so she had assigned as a counsellor. Most Walrider hosts are made to do different kind of assessments to keep tabs on the projects and hosts and also to see if the person was still a competent host for the Walrider or if the Walrider was still competent enough Walrider for the host.

 

Most of the time damage to the host, at times even the Walrider, meant irrevocable damage to either host or Walrider. Meaning that the Walrider “dies” or the host dies or something akin to that. This had happened many times over. Walriders usually don’t change hosts. They become too ingrained with one host to really change hosts. There has been only one or two isolated cases where a Walrider had changed a host but like someone’s nervous system the Walrider becomes part and parcel of their hosts and they them so it is like changing DNA if you wanted to change a Walrider and host bond. Billy is one of the few people who was still medically alive after the damages to his body. There were times the scientists had decided to pull the plug but others had debilitated either way Billy was valuable as he could be studied in post-mortem too as what happens to the human body when a Walrider has inhabited it for too long. They had already started major biopsies to him; cutting out a bit freely tissue samples of heart, liver, kidneys, lungs, even pancreas to see if his sugar levels were spiked due to all the adrenaline activities he had pulled off with the Walrider. The results were interesting. The psychosomatic issues that were related to Billy’s success was also harrowing due to the fact it was quite unmonitored the entire thing. No one expected Billy to make a lateral ascension — which to Darian had been funny as fuck as he felt the Murkoff scientists and executives were being stupid. How could they not even care about Billy’s progresses? The fact he had no bronchial accumulation, none of his cells were dying, he was happily ready to be bitch to the Walrider (as Darian put it) maybe, because, there was some elitism in there as well. Billy was what was called poor and trailer-park to those bastards. So, people didn’t expect that he would do all of this so fast. Darian recollected Andrew telling him how unhappy people were at Billy’s success. What Billy did was unpredictable at best — no one knew why Billy made that ascension then; it was like he was waiting for the right time as signs of him controlling the Walrider as just minimal shapes was “documented” before. Now, they did not know what to need or want from Billy aside holding his body as a sort of research project.

 

Darian wondered if he too would be something akin like this to the consortium when he died; or would he had by then gotten so much power that his body would not be touched without his permission? — would he have made a genetic lineage for the Walrider by then as well? Many scientists wanted Walriders to persist from hosts into cultivated or biological genetic markers — as it was said that Helen and Henry Granat would be possible to host Walriders as such. “Habrok.” Darian called softly.

 

His Walrider hummed and went and cuddled with him; Darian welcomed it though showed no active response, “Habrok, would you? Would you die with me or would you want to bond with someone else? Like a child of mine?”

 

Habrok looked a bit uncertain about what was being said. Then when he did understand a few bits he looked severely disturbed and annoyed. Habrok couldn’t talk much. There was sudden bouts of language and then sudden regenerations of his vocal matrix. Darian accepted both. He knew he was a bit like that too so his Walrider gotten that from him. There were times Darian would stay quiet and pique the curiosities of Jeremy Blaire. Jeremy would then at one point ask if he was just gonna daydream away to which Darian would answer in the affirmative pissing Jeremy off but he just, as he was helpless, stayed quite quiet too, radiate anger while Darian radiated peace of mind. “Habrok, you are stronger than XY6. Don’t overdo damage okay? Unless needed.” Habrok nodded. “We will attack them in some hours or maybe in a few days — haven’t decided yet. I need to run some things by Wernicke. Waylon has some interesting developments that are a bit rare for someone exposed to the Morphogenic engine. Habrok, do you think we should spar with Swanson’s Walrider? I mean that is a strong Walrider she got that one. I haven’t seen any of the other Walriders in a long while either.” Darian looked bored. There he was near the foliage about to leave. “We can’t stay too long at a time. XY6 may detect us or you as you both are made from the same types of nanomachines.”

 

 

* * *

 

“You should have told me about that Grandpa.”

 

“Helen…”

 

“Your silence will be seen as a betrayal to the consortium.” With that Helen Granat smacked Wernicke right on his face making him lose his footing and fall.

 

“Helen…” his voice was sharp, as he clung to his face, “This was just unprecedented, I – uh –“

 

Helen grabbed Wernicke by the throat and picked him up: “Unprecedented? More like unreported! You should have told us of your mental connection with Billy! The white space that Billy talked about with Kurt Vigalondo! Vigalondo is being rebuked too for remembering it too late!” Then dropping Wernicke casually, “Did you tell Billy you put allegations on Rick Trager?”

 

“I _suggested_ it. Not to him specifically but to put someone else on the fault line. As you know Rick helped torture a lot of Billy’s friends. And Billy had been unforgiving.” Wernicke caressed his throat, coughed a bit hoarsely before speaking out clearly, a good two minutes whilst Granat waited.

 

“It’s okay I suppose. Trager was a bit too weird about the Annapurna incident. People started getting uncomfortable around him after that.” Helen chuckled then stroking her chin, “It’s obvious to me he had a hard on for David Annapurna. I mean I do too. That man is quite something. Though, many people wouldn’t guess, Trager is so sarcastically charming with everyone. It is too strange to think of him, head of research, wanting to be in bed with a mere orderly. But David had come across to me too as an underachiever who is now being utilised for all his potentials.”

 

“Trager is a strange sadist. A person who can hold both Masoch and Marque De Sade’s attention.” Wernicke commented, “I always thought De Sade and Masoch to be lonely men whose extremities were a product of their loneliness.”

 

“That’s a valuable argument.” Helen giggled as she sat down, Wernicke’s office was calm and peaceful, the fireplace was crackling softly, there were windows but there were rain clouds astray though you could make out a few stars. There was a dish of dinner left on an end table. Helen had seated herself in Wernicke’s chair but then got up to eat some of Wernicke’s dinner which consisted of stewed chicken with some large vegetables. The odour was inviting and Wernicke looked angry as his dinner was his but refrained from making a comment. “About him, or her, whatever the thing is…molecular degeneration is happening pretty fast. I don’t think this person will make it you know. I have told Sasha and Vivian to take some special precautions in the fact there might be an untimely death. Lewis refers to this as nothing interesting. However, I disagree –“

 

“Lewis is not a specialist of feelings here.” Wernicke says this rough, coarsely, and takes the fork and knife from Helen and starts eating a bit, sharing the meal in a odd successive way, they seemed more like symbiotes now, aligned and restricted by same emotions, enabled by the sameness of vision and what they felt. “I must chide him, punish him that he thinks he knows what is going on.”

 

“Wernicke, Grandpa,” Helen says this gently, looking outside, the greyness and pitch black of the world outside, suddenly she daydreamed a Walrider’s teeth, eyes and facial skeletal structure, comparing the Walriders’ physiology with storm clouds seemed like a valid point of reference, though Helen grated her teeth a bit. Walriders should not only be a particular point of reference for them to begin with. Project Voluspo was still important. Wernicke waited as she let out a sigh, looking back at him from the windows, back straight and rigid like some silence rifle, yet she construed some tenderness, “We both know that Jackie’s life has an indefinite shelf life, it is finite but indefinite. We do not know what will happen later on; I doubt we can even use Jackie’s body as research. That body that changes shape,” she pause, reflectively, Wernicke continued eating, slowly cutting pieces as though feeding a child, longitudinal and vertically neat, the meat lingered on the fork, some grease on the knife, as potato was attached, he put it n his mouth, and gently cut another piece and put it into her mouth, she ate it with sharp bites inside her mouth, then unconsciously swallowed, “Just like a Walrider. It is problematic. It was unstable to begin with. And we shouldn’t have let Jackie _live_ , but then again XY3 is…well, XY3 has developed more.”

 

“We cannot kill a _child_ Helen!” Wernicke put down his utensils in a clashing on the plate that vibrated throughout the room as a thunderclap, “We just cannot! Killing anyone for the innocence of acceptance, accepting something is irrefutably evil!”

 

“Murkoff had no qualms killing the _other_ children.” Helen ate a cabbage slice, “Rudolph. Murkoff will do anything to meet its goals. The consortium will do more than just killing children. There was no personal malice. It just was done. After all, you saw what happened to Jackie’s classmates?” Helen looked at a slowly trembling Wernicke, then saw hi, slouch his shoulders, “Yes, Rudolph. As before, the tumours were pure lead and some died without Murkoff’s assistance. Bleeding out from nose and ears and eyes and mouth. Those children did not know what hit them. Only Jackie survived. To graduate to a new hell. And all Jackie talked about at first was her or his, has no pronoun preference that one, elementary school teacher. Even now, that fifteen-year-old cares only about Yura Nanabell, the elementary school teacher. Unfortunately, Murkoff killed her. They said she started knowing too much. Now, I don’t really care about this thing. But XY3 is called Nana. How sweet isn’t it? That Walrider is as his host, or her host.” Then smiling, “Wernicke, today, was one of Jackie’s good enough days. I decided to call him over.”

 

“Helen, do you want me to talk to him?” Wernicke looked solemnly weary, “I hope you didn’t think –“

 

“You have your punishment for silence Wernicke.” Helen pointed the dinner knife at Wernicke, “If you can chat up Billy, surely, Jackie will not be a problem?”

 

Wernicke snorted, “Sure, your highness.” Wernicke covered his plate. Didn’t feel like eating anymore.

 

Helen smiled. A black jet smoke came forward. A Walrider materialised. However, this Walrider was reasonably different. The musculature oozed power, strength, dactyl abilities, wiry around the abdomen were six pacs, or eight, the hips all toned, the breasts too – the sex of this Walrider was more female. The Walrider was female more or less. Her fingers were slender but more artfully sharper as those manicured for carnage and danger. The Walrider politely nodded to Helen and Wernicke who nodded back in acknowledgment. Soon, a young boy or man came in the room. The man smiled, looked around eighteen to twenty years of age, and looked happy enough, those eyes were vacant, “Hello Rudolph, I can call you that right?” Wernicke nodded, the voice sounded feminine, a bit high pitched, then oscillated into a deeper tone, “I think I know so much about you. I know we met less but I hear so much about you. I am Jackie, I know a couple of years ago I was younger, but Murkoff has been taking care of me and — so has Helen and this thing called consortium.”

 

“It’s _mostly_ the consortium.” Wernicke seemed a bit seething, and he snorts this out.

 

“ _Whatever it is, Jackie has been kept well enough.”_ This was spoken clearly by the female Walrider, _“I am Nana Dr Wernicke. I know we were never truly formally introduced. I mean I did not know how to talk until recently. I have been learning how to talk to humans in a given environment. Walriders, cannot communicate yet using your phones and all as our voice is a static that interferes with digital and analog signals mostly.”_

 

“It is nice to meet you Nana.” Wernicke says interested at the level of talking competence shown by Nana. Helen by this time walks out winking at an annoyed Wernicke. “What do you mean ‘given environment’ Nana?”

 

_“Wernicke, doctor, Walriders, most of them, cannot talk without a given radius to normal people, our vocal chords are not as advanced as humans, our chords act more as interceptors of information than generators, Walriders must practice a lot more than humans to able to speak coherently outside a fixed radius and focus a lot more energy in the beginning. What to human beings is natural and autonomous is to us cumbersome and challenging.”_ Nana explains with an eloquence that Wernicke enjoys, as he was particularly annoyed at Habrok’s lack of communication skills and lack of finesse.

 

“Nana is a very good teacher.” Jackie looks somewhat distant, “You know like my teacher Yura? Yura knew me. Knew my secrets. Knew me as girl and a boy. Never complained.” And for a moment, there was a slow bleeding coming out of Jackie’s nose and Wernicke stared in both shock and sadness.

 

_“Oh, my dear Jackie…”_ the Walrider grabbed a tissue from Wernicke’s desk and wiped Jackie’s nose, _“Sorry doctor, he hasn’t well, he hasn’t been his boy-form for long, he changed sexes_ _half an hour ago.”_

 

“As did you.” Wernicke noticed.

 

_“Yes, as did I.”_ Nana comments, _“When Jackie is a boy I am female, when he is girl I am male. That has always been me, XY3, codename Knightmare.”_

“You know a bout yourself that’s good.” Wernicke saw Jackie close his eyes, “Is he taking a nap?”

 

_“Yes. He is.”_

 

“Well, he can project himself a bit through you, yes?”

 

_“Yes, doctor.”_

 

“Tell him to meet me. We have a white space. He can communicate with me there.”

 

In a few moments, the office seemed to wither away and all that remained was white everywhere. Jackie looked at the place and smiled, he looked around fifteen now, and he laughed and looked at Wernicke.

 

“Jackie, I want you to meet someone.” Wernicke warmly came forward, another person, bloodied and distant sat in a chair, the white space around him stained with blood and pus, “This is Billy, Billy Hope.”

 

Billy’s wide red-shit eyes, bulging and all twisted, looked at Jackie as though he was possessed. Any person would be scared but Jackie put his hand out, “Hello I am Jackie, Jackie Faring, it’s nice to meet you Billy Hope.”

 

But Billy wasn’t looking at Jackie. He was looking at Nana, the Walrider. Whose eyes had a reddish-yellow glow. And his mouth got twisted in a grin, wide and all teeth out, “Wal…Walrider…”

 

“Well,” Wernicke paused and put a hand on his chin, “This idea may not be so bad.”

 

 

* * *

 

“My aunt, My aunt talks about Shirley Pierce. I am so shocked. Aunt Judith knows Shirley Pierce.” Carmen trembled, she was sitting in a small coffee, in front of her was Genevieve Amis, Genevieve held her hand. “You should…you should have seen how she looked…” Carmen has started crying, “Aunt Judith smiled and said she was so happy that they may have returned. I…I have to leave Leadville. I know I wanted to know what happened to David but this is seriously affecting my family.”

 

“I think whatever happened to David Annapurna may have also happened to Miles Upshur, a former colleague of mine, do what’s necessary for you Officer Rojas, Carmen, I can’t stop. I need to go after Miles. I am afraid I may find him dead. But find him I must.” Genevieve looked quiet. Carmen survived her, blonde-brown hair, and honey-grey eyes. It was funny that Genevieve looked more composed than her though she was the officer and the other a journalist. “Leadville is safe. But we aren’t.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Carmen, we know too much.”

 

Carmen swallowed, “Will they…will they come for my aunt?”

 

“I don’t think she was part of this project I heard about but she knows about their MIA patient Shirley. It’s a possibility her life may be in danger.”

 

“Well, I can’t completely turn away from this…” Carmen sobbed, “I know I may seem cowardly.” She closed her eyes, “But, it’s not that. I am worried about my grandmother too. This is way above our heads.” Then she looked at Amis, “You are talking about mind experiments here. What godforsaken things have Murkoff done?”

 

“Too many to list that I am not completely aware of but a list of this will surely make them go to hell for all the atrocious acts done by them.” Genevieve held her hand, “I am sorry Carmen. I know this is a lot to fathom in a short while.”

 

Carmen was quiet for a moment. “I can leave…” before Genevieve could speak (her mouth open to protest), “With you.” Genevieve stops, looks, “Genevieve, I wanna call you that,” she nods at Carmen, “Look, I need to go out and hope that this will give Murkoff time to be distracted from Aunt Judith.” Then looking down, “But it is obvious we all have to run for it. I want Murkoff to be distracted by me. You said that Aunt Judith was experimented less on as she was younger. But it still did hurt her. I wonder, when I meet David again, will he be like this.” She starts crying, “All inside his head. Never to acknowledge the outside world again?”

 

Genevieve is touched. That is the least of it. She didn’t expect a patrol officer, a typical police officer, to cry for someone they may hardly know. Not to say police were heartless, some were truly, she knew this as she did exposes on police brutalities, racism, authoritarian abuses, which was common amongst people who had wielded institutionalised power. Murkoff was one of them. So, was their police security. Even before Carmen came here and started talking she remembered that a family wanted to sue a Murkoff agent for dislocating the knee joint of an emaciated patient. The patient, marked only with initials as though he was a nobody, J.P., died due to subsequent injuries but also infection stemmed from the untreated wounds on the knee-joint. That was an open and shut case for many but for Genevieve and most in her field it was one of the first true investigations of Mount Massive and how it cared and treated their patients. The case, known as its victim “J.P.”, was highly discussed amongst Miles and herself. Miles, who always had an arrow armed at Murkoff, took Mount Massive then and there as a point of origin and reference for part of Murkoff’s brutalities.

 

Though Miles later on decided to focus on Murkoff crimes around the world especially war crimes, Genevieve, who had a bit of a knack on psychological, physiological and neurological cases of the sort, decided to focus some attention of Mount Massive and institutes like it owned by Murkoff or affiliated with it such as Zeichner. Miles had called her wanting dossiers and case-files on Mount Massive recently. Saying that he was given a tip. A good anonymous tip. Genevieve had wanted to come along but Miles said “no” on the grounds of actual reality than sexism, “Gene, I want you to come, you practically know all of this better than me, but for some reason, Murkoff usually houses only male staff and patients in Mount Massive and I am afraid if we are caught, they are bound to notice you don’t do male. And…” Miles sucked in, “I know you are tough but I don’t really trust this place Gene, these guys are fucks who might not have seen a woman in a long time and I am just worried. I know that sounds wrong…”

 

“No. It’s not.” Genevieve had replied, “I know it isn’t really out of norm. I do have some work to do and if you don’t come back in 10 hours tops I am going on. By the way, you are a good looking man Miles.”

 

“Uh, excuse me.” Miles sounded a bit alarmed. A bit confused. A bit flattered.

 

“All I am saying is that the same safety precautions have to be extended to you as well.” Genevieve heard Miles give a confused noise, “Miles, those men have not seen in ages a man out of agents and personnel and such, who looks attractive and in those kind of places beauty can be both calming but also a bit nasty. You may attract anger of others, or maybe their lusts. You look clean, healthy and fresh and well maintained. Trust me, you will be the crème de la crème there yourself, maybe even more than me, some of them may find woman a weakness or too much of an other to be bothered with.”

 

Miles was quiet for a while, the sighed, “God, you sure know better shit than me on this. You are right. Gotta keep the same guards up.”

 

“Come over, I have a rough schematic of a possible layout as well. It was old drawings for that case. I don’t know what they have renovated or not and it is so rough looks like ancient mariners drawings or caveman but it will give a raw idea of the complex.” Genevieve smiled as she talked.

 

“Complex huh?” Miles on the other end, sounded like he was smiling too.

 

“Yes,” on a more serious note Genevieve explained, “Miles, Mount Massive looks deceptively smaller than it is. There are new extensions being built into it as well. But apparently there are large courtyards inside and all of that. You need some leeway into what you are going into. I once looked at it from certain angles on some images. Miles it looks like some twisted version of a fortress. Murkoff knew the real estate when it was buying.”

 

“Well, then, they must also have known they are sordid sons-of-bitches who are breaking all laws and decencies doing what they are presumably doing in there.” Miles snorted, angrily. Genevieve could hear, or feel in essence, his grip tighter on the cell-phone.

 

“They like to follow religiously the adage ‘rules are meant to be broken’ they trust that only violence and chaos can get them results. That a bloodied body is nothing but statistics and the ‘large picture’ always ends with a bag of cash heavier and taller than the bloodied body. They are forgetting the irreplaceability of organs, tissues, veins and of course memories and a life. But that is because to them anything aside desire is expendable.” Genevieve explained, her voice hummed a knowledge, age did not make them wise, so, at times, wisdom looked weary on them.

 

“Yeah, my desire is to go there and royally screw them over. They can find my journalist-ejaculate expendable.” Miles laughed and Genevieve had laughed with him…

 

…that seemed a long time ago. Considering, that after the 10 hour mainstay, she did go after him…only, to find that the roads were being patrolled by Murkoff tactical. And they looked like a death squad so she didn’t go near. Miles needed her alive not dead. Heroics here wouldn’t help anyone. She asked a friend, a hacker, to see if there was any information. Before he was almost traced back the friend had spoken that he needed to transfer this case sensitive material somewhere else as a copy, a safe-deposit move. They said that some patients were transferred before the lockdown and then something happened. Something strange. There was a power outage. And the surveillance got this weird grainy, blurry shadowy picture before it went out in one of the underground labs. Yes, he answered her question. There were underground labs in Mount Massive. And, he said, for a moment, there was camera not completely offline — but, it was far away and he saw something strange, human in shape, but covered in weird black-grey fog, come out of the main entrance.

 

None of that sounded good. Even real. The veracity of them could be challenged. However, a human shaped figure meant, someone out there was still alive. And that someone could be Miles Upshur. If not. She hoped that he or she could say something about Miles. A part of her wanted to just go there. And regretted not going there. But her hacker friend, had stated, she did the right thing, because Miles needed to be found out as in discovered with what he discovered. She didn’t have to die like him. Then cautiously added if he was dead.

 

“Carmen.” Genevieve clasped her hand, “I am worried as you. I am deeply worried.” Clasping her hand tighter, thought not uncomfortably, Carmen looked and held it back, her hand, as a sign of solidarity, as a sign of possibly alliances and more, “Look. I am worried because I have a very good friend. I love him very much. As my friend.” She reiterated it due to Carmen giving that look of an acknowledgment that borderline on thinking if he was closer than most, “I did have a crush on him.” She smiled, not completely throwing it out, “But you know, I kinda, well, once he dated a girl, her name was Yesfir and I was more interested in her. I know I was in love with Yesfir more than I was with Miles.” Carmen had a shift on knuckles in her hand, yes, Genevieve liked both sexes, though she preferred dating other women more, Carmen was a bit nervous, not out of homophobia, rather, she didn’t know what all this could mean, “I am sorry.” Genevieve smiled sadly, she was almost going to remove her hand yet Carmen held it which surprised Genevieve but she smiled sadly, “I am just reminiscing the normal. I just love Miles so much and I am just…I am just so upset.” Some tears slid out, “There is such a horribly great chance that he is dead or also like David. If David has been influenced and tortured. I am just really confused as you but we can’t give up Carmen. We can’t for them. We need to find some truths.”

 

Carmen didn’t mind that they had eradicated that formality and now was using first names. Too much formality is also a torture and cloak-and-dagger thing which was used by those Murkoff assholes anyway.

 

Genevieve had her phone suddenly ring, she brought it out, after a moment, her eyes grew large. Carmen knew this wasn’t a good sign, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

 

She didn’t notice that Carmen was talking to her at first, “Are you sure Yesfir?” Then her lips trembled, “Alright? Alright. You are right. I should contact him and her as soon as possible.”

 

“What’s happening —“

 

“I have a friend, a hacker, his name is Lance, Lance has to go on the run now. Apparently, whatever he uncovered for me in the small bits of pixelated, corrupted image of the only functioning camera outside Mount Massive gates was actually quite priceless to the Murkoff Corporation.” Then quietly, “Lance was almost badly hurt. And his footage has been taken back. He made a copy, a safe-deposit, he apparently gave it to his ex-girlfriend, another hacker, her name is Yuma. Yuma works, or sometimes works, for an agency called VERA links. You know the company that helped distribute some of the material that put Mount Massive on the map. But Yuma is a bit of an eccentric, or, she has cultivated a partial eccentricity due to her line of work. She practically does live in a cabin, or cottage, outside some woods. I need to meet up with her.” Genevieve drank some water, she said things precisely, her voice somewhat wavered, but she looked calm and confident enough, as she noted down her final thoughts, bracketed them into an ultimatum. Carmen was a bit impressed. Though she knew this was pretty hard on Genevieve. And from the corner of her eye, she realised, it was going to get harder.

 

“Genevieve. She said this coolly, without hesitation, without effort, “I am leaving.”

 

Genevieve was about to look surprised when Carmen slowly pressed her hand, surreptitiously, “Genevieve. There have been two men sitting a bit close to us. I have noticed all the time we have been here, so have they. All they drank is black coffee, I noticed, by instinct and training, that they hardly talked too. They thought the crowd would not make us notice. I did because there is something about them that feels out of town. I am sure they are from Murkoff or even tactical. Genevieve, does Murkoff know you investigate them? I think if they didn’t they do know now and I think we have to stay calm and focused on this. I know I can’t stay in Leadsville anymore. Tonight we are leaving for that cabin or cottage. We are getting that information.”

 

Genevieve smiled, got up and embraced Carmen who embraced back, “Good.” She whispered it intensely, “You know Yesfir, my friend, said we can drop over anytime too.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I think they wonder at times don’t they?”

 

“Yeah, they might.”

 

“I mean it’s not like, well, we can just seduce them.”

 

“I would like to seduce him.”

 

“As would I.”

 

“His eyes, and his lips.”

 

“Yours and mine.”

 

“So gentle and patient.”

 

“There might be no need for the suppression of our desires.”

 

“Maybe not.”

 

They both looked at each other. Tim and Tom then burst out laughing.

 

“We haven’t talked like that in a while…” Tom said suddenly, there was a short pause after their laughter. Then a small silence that soon stretched a bit. It was tense but not necessarily awkward.

 

“We are at different times now. Different wavelengths you know.” Tim responded. But there was a frigidity, a timidity, a loneliness. That suddenly stood out and they looked pretty foreign to each other. They didn’t necessarily like this. Nothing to each other to them had ever seemed or seen as foreign. They were identical twins. They had nuanced synchronicity didn’t they? Well, it was more too synchronic that they had alleviated and excluded the need, the genetic marker, the chromosomal bereft and egg-placid need to be asynchronous. But their identically had protected them till now. They were old. Too old. But not too old to start new beginnings. With effort, some little and some large, they had started stitching new leaves into their mantles. Leaves that were not sameness even if they had similarities. But they were starting to see in distinctions. Life, to them, or how they viewed it, made it hard to be solely individualistic. They could not be compatible with most aside each other so being foiled and each others’ foils was in a way, useful, pragmatic, human. Now, they are seeing with another kaleidoscope and it also inspired in them a newness that each gesture and talking articulated.

 

“I like clothes.” Tim suddenly said.

 

“I prefer them, but I still prefer sleeping naked.” Tom says.

 

“I like cooking beef and vegetables.” Tim says.

 

‘I like cooking most meats but like cutting vegetables a bit more.” Tom says.

 

“I liked reading Matilda a bit more.” Tim says.

 

“I liked reading Carrie a bit more.” Tom says.

 

“I like Waylon a lot.” Tim confesses, blushing.

 

“I wanna dance with Miles.” Tom blushes and bites his lips.

 

“I wouldn’t mind going for Eddie though or a woman.” They say this both together.

 

Then they laugh. Hug each other. In each others arms, brothers a pair, some tears in their eyes, “It’s fun right. I think we are growing. Not apart. But more in tune with ourselves.” Tim says.

 

Tom smiles, “I like Waylon a lot too actually.” He giggles, “I just think Miles may accept me more.”

 

Tim smiles, “I get the same feeling about Miles and then see Waylon.” Tim kisses his brother’s cheek. Tom kisses his brother’s cheek. “Don’t be sad. I think we are long overdue this.”

 

“No, I am not. I just feel a bit strange at times. But I know, I am happy we are starting our separate journeys too.”  Tim says, “I actually wanna stay a bit back longer here even when the time comes. I want to feel this place by myself.”

 

“I want to leave when they do.” Tim confessed and they gently looked at each other, “It will be our first true separation.”

 

“I am actually looking forward to it.” Tom smiled.

 

“Surprisingly, so am I.” Tim smiled too. And they both hugged each other.

 

“You think we are still infected with cancers?” Tom asked.

 

“No. I think some of the cancers slowed down. It is also the present in the static; you know exposure to it later on helped slowed them down I don’t know how but you get it. You know cell manipulation. I don’t think everyone benefits from it equally but from what I felt cancers are a bit slowed down.” Tim replied. “Though, I think Eddie’s case is a bit different. He may not have cancers anymore but he will have lesions and his body will get weaker. He hadn’t had a proper chance to recuperate properly.”

 

“Why didn’t we tell this to Eddie?” Tom asked.

 

“Well, until you brought it up I somewhat forgot and to be honest we had more things to worry about.” Tim just put it out there. “Eddie seems healthy enough so it was unnecessary to pick that creature, that bull in the cabin-house, so to say, we say it if something happens. Nothing more or less.”

 

“I hope Waylon doesn’t get mad at us.” Tom stated, a bit smiling.

 

“Only Waylon?” Tim chuckled and looked at his brother.

 

“Well, Miles will get annoyed, but as he is with the Walrider he might be slow to react but Waylon is quite the irate guy about these things.” Tom chuckled back, “But I appreciate that about him. When we are all careless about shit he is the one who can say this stuff is important. We need that sense around. Some of us forget to exercise it. I am happy Waylon doesn’t.”

 

“Yeah, you are right.” Tim agreed, nodded, holding his brother close, “Waylon reacts appropriately. Our lacking of that kind of response at times is actually kinda inappropriate.”

 

“You know.” Tom holds his brother tighter too, then they both disengage, “I am going to see what Miles is doing in the living room.”

 

“Perhaps, getting used to open areas a lot more.” Tim mused, “I mean Wallie said that open areas still too much for him.”

 

Tom giggled, “Martin would have a hissy fit that we are calling this so-called god of his Wallie and all that.”

 

“Martin wasn’t _totally_ wrong in that he understood the concept of the Walrider as something supernatural creature but he is not a god and to be honest I think he nursed Wallie as a god to get over and make meaning of all our madness.” Tim slowly sadly spoke, “It would be nice to think we were all disciples for a cause, that our torture had purpose besides monetary ends, that we were instrumental in something holy even if we are products of sacrilege.” Looking intently at Tom, “It is hard to know that something was done to you beyond your control. Beyond your scope of asking why as the why was so simple, so base and vulgar you spat at it and as a human you couldn’t accept it. Thinking Walrider as a god helped him feel that all he had gone through was purposeful. And it was actually. But maybe not entirely his way of thinking but it was.”

 

“Those who did not make it.” Tom blinked, as though his eyes were watery, “I am unhappy that they cannot or lost their ability to know they are real or that they can run away.”

 

“Thinking about that will make us feel bad.” Tim reasoned, holding his brother’s shoulder, the only light in their room all this time had been a lamp, it flickered and scratched on surfaces and glass, it burned their eyes and brought its feral glow, but now they looked like encased amber droplets rather than waspy predatory hunger, they had fossilised their deadlier inclinations, they have grown something more valuable.

 

Tom looks at their belongings, or, more correctly, what they had accumulated whence they had stayed there (belongings, is not a bad word, they did have a belonging here but right now certain things about even the immediate future was still abstract and they so they skirted around that word with caution). They had a pair of jeans each (though some more would be nice as they did work around the house and things could get a bit messy), they each had a pair of large cargo pants (which were useful), they each had a pair of hiking laced boots and two pairs of flannel shirts. The closets all had clothes. A mixture of both thrift shop wear and new clothes. Each room was seemingly facilitated to accommodate hiding and escape. But the Twins had been larger in size so Waylon and Eddie looked for them some clothes, Waylon and Miles first, before Eddie appeared, found the cargo pants, boots and shirts. They had some poor threadbare clothing from the time of the motel, a t-shirt each and a pair of normal pants, the t-shirts were not so good and so they now just used them as extra blankets in their bed and the pants, itched so they threw them out. They hadn’t worn shoes and the waitress at the diner didn’t care. That was a long time ago when they thought about it. Then Eddie had some in his room, shirts he meant. That fit their size and Waylon got most of the other stuff. It felt strange doing all these things. But cleaning the rooms they frequented and also doing the cooking actually made them happy even if they found that unusual at first. They have found it relaxing and reading later on added to that. Tom just sighed. One day, when Tim left with them, he will follow but later, so he will be seeing these differently when he sees them alone. The thought was lonely but also comforting at the same time. He understood that he and Tim needed this path. And he was happy that whatever fate God planned for them, even so late in life, they have gotten this far — to this point, nothing short of a miracle, a God Blessed miracle. They, who so were maniacal, angry, downtrodden, betrayed and isolated by humanity now getting a chance at humanity and being human. It felt warm. Tom felt warm in his heart. Looking at Tim who wore the same expression he knew his older brother felt the same; but he knew this was truly essential to them.

 

“Well, you better hurry up, I think Miles falls asleep at times. With all that Walrider weight on his shoulders.”  Tim quietly smiled, “Maybe I can go and talk to Waylon or see what Eddie is up to.” Putting a finger on his chin, “I think that would be entertaining.”

 

“You remember I wanted Miles’s tongue and liver.” Tom recollected.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I want his tongue for other things; his liver, well, he can keep it, and bring out all the bile and black humour, he has for entertainment, I mean, I would want that.”

 

Tim looked on at the naughty expression of Tom’s, “So patient. Maybe they will be yours.”

 

They both chuckle. They have been released from the umbilical chord of frustrations and fear. Now they see multiple wombs and multiple surfaces and know somewhat a place they can lean on to.

 

 

* * *

 

Miles laid down on a sofa in the living room. It had a fire on. He saw it was old fashioned and so he asked the Walrider to help him bring some sturdy looking logs and some sticks who got three logs and some sticks and decided to light a fire, the warmth of the place with its bio-fuel made him happy, Relaxed him. Water was making him nervous. Ironically, from what he remembered from the last time, water didn’t make the Walrider nervous. Water to him was a droplet to white static, to feeling things interwoven into the grainy layers of existence.  Fire soothed him. Though, fire was undeniably, a different kind of static. Though it was earth that suited him best at the moment: muddy or moving or grounded earth had many sediments. Seeing the fire take its time with the logs reminded him of earth as well. Miles had perched near to the fireplace, he had to be steady nor else he might burn himself, despite the Walrider and him augmenting each other’s healing stuff like that still hurt as hell.

 

Wallie had been polite. When asked him for a favour he did it. Carrying the logs. They seemed like long bones of trees to him and he commented of that making Miles smile and said could be.  However, the disquiet in Wallie’s heart was immense, it had magnitudes, as though he was in a greyish-white sea of white noise stuck to him like foam and with vice viscous grip submerged him in waves and waves of electrified numbed screaming. What had Miles reacted to? The unpleasantness in his heart, or whatever he had that chose to be a heart, a centre of emotive and psychic formulations, tripped and tripped, tapped and tapped, like a melancholic old-battered luggage of sentiments and collusions. Now, one could not be polite.

 

“Miles.”

 

“Hmm.” Miles arched his neck to see a determination, felt it too, his unfolded arms, became untangled, Wallie wanted and needed his attention, “What’s up? What’s wrong?”

 

“There are many questions. Least of them is what Waylon could do for you at that time.” Wallie was now the one folding his arms, “I am not certain –“

 

“I don’t wanna talk about –“

 

“What the –“ Wallie went forth and closed their faces together.

 

“It’s not important.” Miles looked away. Not meeting the Walrider’s gaze who suddenly hissed like a cat and then growled like a dog, a static outburst also formed alongside that, “I am serious Wallie. I really don’t think it’s good to talk about it and I am unwilling to do it now. Loath to. All the adjectives under the sun. Nada, not right now.”

 

“Well,” Wallie looked at him stupendously, “It is almost evening you know, everything is not really under the sun in a way. You look for pockets of sunshine now you need a telescope from what I understand.”

 

“I did say under the sun, if the sun is a rug well, let’s say it’s flipped on its side I am still putting the dust under.” Miles as he said this, from a bored look, shivered and clasped himself, shivered again. It was not cold it felt. There was something unwaveringly creepy about how he did all that.

 

“Miles, you are not scared of daylight or something are you.” Wallie asked and touched his shoulder.

 

“No, Wallie,” Miles rudely shrugged off Wallie’s hand then made Wallie scowl and Miles look apologetically and then touch the Walrider’s elbow, “Wallie, I like the daylight, we look more like something manageable than every boogieman tale from south to north in the world. Daylight makes me happy. So do quiet nights.”

 

Wallie held his hand back, “Anything to do with flipping?”

 

“No. I mean we are a definition of flipped out, you know.” Miles gave his nervous chuckle.

 

“Dust.” Wallie felt a pang, shred between him and Miles, Miles almost let go but Wallie held on to his hand, “Dust, sand, gospel of sand, grains of static…”

 

Miles was quiet for a moment, “Yeah.” He shivered and Wallie instinctively held him, “I just I don’t know Wallie.” He slumped down so fast that Wallie, even with his Walrider quickness, struggled to hold him, “Wallie…I…” he started having tears in his eyes, “Oh fuck water droplets…” he rubbed his eyes a bit roughly.

 

“Reminds me of grain, and sand, and all…” Wallie whispered quietly, “It’s different than me right?” Wallie picks up Miles, bridal style, but he does it expertly, like he has been waiting to do this, though he buckles a bit, and shifts weight and composure, slips on a side on Miles’ shoulder, then hoists him up again, the expertise lied in caring and bonding, even if the movements weren’t perfect they had a fluidity, an unacknowledged vocal tenaciousness and empathy. “I mean…” Wallie put Miles on the long sofa, its lush smell of fibres engrossed them both, then Wallie laid down beside him, curled up next to him, feline-like, lover-like, pretty comfortably compact in who they were, “I mean wider spaces trouble me. Now you are scared of smaller, smallest pattern like objects.”

 

“Some perverse balance.” Miles said quietly and he actually pressed his face against the Walrider’s, they looked intimate, and respectful, Walrider pressed his cheek against Miles. Grey-nebulous yes looking into the fleshy-universe of blue cotton discs, the heat between them unmistakably calm and a bit familial with the familiar.

 

“We can find other balances Miles.” Walrider stroked his cheek with his own, “No need for this perversion, we can connect with our own comfortable ones. Besides, I don’t think it’s perversion and balance at all I think we are facing, what human calls, inadequacies.”

 

Miles had to smile, his mouth stretched and his lips pressed now softly against the Walrider’s cheek making him notice, their eyes locked, a wavelength beyond static, “Nicely put.” Then wrapping his arms around the Walrider, “Do you want to explore the woods?”

 

“Right now?” the Walrider shivered now and in his stead it was Miles who embraced him back. “It seems more open now, I mean with all those nocturnal noises and creatures.”

 

“Yes, and you look like a creature of the night.” Miles pressed his cheek a bit more closely, “Trust me. It would be going out and coalescing with many matters that may make you up.”

 

Walrider smiled briefly, “Do you think, uhmm, do you think so?” then frowned a bit, “I mean not to be rude Miles but you and I are ignorant about each other as in we don’t know exactly what we are and what we are made of.”

 

“I think it is exciting to go now.” Miles slowly ran his hands on Wallie’s the claws of mesmerising static or waves melding with that of flesh and bone, those talons reflected as nail enamel, “I feel, something tells me, this isn’t a bad time to go for both of us. I mean it’s a bit quieter now. I am also feeling kinda cramped up in the house.”

 

“You humans confuse me.” Wallie chuckled and ran his own long fingers against Miles’s rich brown hair, the long strands rushed against his cortex and psyche, Wallie loved the texture and smell of Miles’s hair, “A few moments ago you were resistant to the idea of talking with me about all of this. Now you want us to go out and investigate some of our fears together.”

 

“That’s the cool things about humans Wallie.” Miles winked and grinned, prompting the Walrider to smile a bit, feeling something warm between them, “We are pretty flexible when we have to be. Pretty consistent when we need to be. We are not just one extreme you know.”

 

“Am I an extreme then?” Wallie looked at his claws, Miles lost his grin a bit in a form of parenthesis “oops” going around his head, Wallie moved his claws, slowly from one side to another and saw the trail of greyish-slivery black smoke like characteristics that made his physiology move, “Maybe, I am an extreme. Look at me I am all smoke and thoughts, or originally I was. And then when I gained a separate sentience of my own, I only focused on survival as my main cause. Which may also be pretty much an extreme cause. And, thinking on it now I was harvested from a form of extreme madness. A madness born from sadness and desperation. That seems extreme too.  I have never really had the chance to be flexible. Nor, in a way to be consistent in something aside killing which had also it’s own wavering attitude when Billy was concerned. So, in many ways I was a hodgepodge extreme and then also a bit unfixed as well.”

 

“You used the word ‘hodgepodge’,” Miles slowly commented, coming closer to Wallie, in a gesture of caring, “That is kinda playful language you know. Not stern. Not too casual. Sometimes, just about right.”

 

“I guess.” Walrider smiled a bit, welcoming Miles closer to him, accepting the support, “As soon as I got you as a host I became more than that one extreme. You challenged me to learn more. For that I am grateful, God knows, I am always going to be grateful.”

 

“They say you were a god.” Miles sheepishly smiled. Rubbed his neck, Wallie saw the beautiful flickers of brown, deep wood-bronze glisten in firewood light, as though Miles was a harmonised entity of nature. Looking at his own ghoulish hands again he knew he was not as naturalised as the human in front of him. His physiology did not fit with firewood and cabins and the whole idea of nature as calm and homely. Wallie sighed, was he forever an interloper? Not only in the affairs of humanity but also in the affairs of natural discourse in itself? Only one way to find out. Perhaps, going outside wasn’t a bad idea.

 

“You know I am no god Miles.” Walrider spoke seriously, his face of teeth and skeletal accentuation more pronounced, making Miles tune in, “For how can a god be only about personal revenge and carnage? I once saw Waylon scribble about an ‘interventionist god’ about getting Jeremy Blaire. Now, that was understandable, in a way, Blaire has hurt many, that man we almost killed, he has dehumanised so many, didn’t give a fuck about Billy either. But can a god only be a god about interventions? I realised that sometimes getting too personal with another looks like you are arresting and denying their sense of agency. This does not really exclude what we know as God too. God cannot vouchsafe on somebody their own right to agency because that is also something worked through and understood and then accepted. I think humans wouldn’t have it any other way. I know, in a way, Billy always intervening on decisions on my behalf, pissed me off when I began to develop sentience. I dutifully protected him but as I heard that Martin guy once speak I always in one way desired to be also what one calls a ‘prodigal son’ because I think Mr. Dad aka Billy got on my nerves at times. But to you I am just an entity who shares bodies with. We are not prodigal or patriarchal anything. Not in the way I had to look up to Billy. I cherish Billy and miss him. Billy helped me by in a way giving birth to my current form and to be honest I know he is irreplaceable in many ways. I am okay with that. I know I didn’t have to always like him or even love his methods but I did love him you know. Billy had this sadness at times that made me want to protect him but also in a way bring him out off. But that would also be too much of an intervention too. You have to sometimes feel things through. Though the carnage was unnecessary in a way. Billy had me. I reflect and think he could have left with me and start something somewhere.”

 

“Well, in a way, Waylon’s wishes came true didn’t they? God made an interventionist decision and made me host some supernatural force that fucked up Blaire.” Miles laughed a bit.

 

Wallie looked at him, “I didn’t mind hurting Blaire. But by that time I was pretty bored of killing. I left him pretty messed up, multiple lacerations, a limb or two broken or even close to severing. I am not sure if he is dead.” But the Wallie looks softened as Miles breathed in, anticipation in the midst thicker than Walrider smoky aura, “But Waylon, if I remember correctly, wanted Jeremy to suffer in any sane or insane way possible. I don’t think me attacking me will leave for a while. I know it was cruel but he was crueller to many including Billy. We reap as we sow as you humans say. It was not really premeditated and neither did I relish it so much; for me he was or _is_ garbage and I just crunched him a bit.”

 

“Wallie, you did good.” Miles looks on, “I just couldn’t see Waylon get hurt. The man looked sane enough, at that time, I just felt that…why should a man who seemed sane and good — I heard a bit of the conversation and knew that Jeremy Blaire knew this person — die at the hands of the fucker? Or, worse, I heard him insinuate something along the lines of molesting him. I knew I wouldn’t stand for it and you seemed to spring to life and try to take care of it.”

 

“Hmmm, I wonder.” Wallie looks on and holds Miles, “Hey Miles, do I do everything you tell me to do?”

 

“Excuse me?” Miles held him in return but confusedly stares at him, “I, I don’t know aren’t you supposed to?”

 

“I am not sure.” Wallie rests his head on Miles’s shoulder, and he automatically rubs his hand against the phantom’s head as though he is going through hair, “I mean, before I was just a bit well, I couldn’t even talk properly, now I can and we do a lot of things in sync and we don’t.” Looking up, affectionately touching his cheek the Walrider asks, “Miles, I don’t want to divided from you. Thinking for myself sometimes scares me. But I _want_ to do it beyond _anything_ I have know. To _think_ and _work_ and _act_ for **myself**.”

 

Miles closed his eyes. His heart felt this palpably large joy. Then he kissed this strange, ghoulish creature’s forehead as an ultimate act of affection. “Wallie, you are a Walrider, but you are a sentient being and so you deserve the basic right to be as autonomous as anyone else. That is something which cannot be taken away from you. You hold onto it, it is a God-given right you know.”

 

“Thank you Miles.” Wallie seemed less tensed now and he embraced him, “I am so happy that you want me to be like this.”

 

“I think you are growing up.” Miles deeply embraced back, “Who am I to stop you?”

 

And Wallie felt something perhaps akin to a heart fill up with joy. “So, shall we go towards the night? Outside, near the woods?”

 

“Yeah. I am the regular lygophile.” Miles laughed and started walking, releasing Wallie who looked questionably.

 

“What does it mean? ‘Lygophile’?” Miles looked at the Walrider all dark but fashioned with a curiousness; a mystery who knows he is not the only mystery.

 

“A person who loves or likes dark places, who thrives in them.” Miles explained, “I encountered this word not too long ago, like four years ago, in a site I think otherwordly. I am a fan of rare words at times.”

 

“Oh, so it is an uncommon word?”  Wallie looks happy, “It suits me an uncommon person, or an uncommon being.”

 

Miles grinned. “Yeah, it sure does Wallie.”

 

* * *

 

 

Eddie came in an explosion that hurt him. The shudder sent pangs all around. Not all of pleasure of pain of contraction that is converted into pleasure….it was his abdomen. Perhaps, masturbation was not a good idea. Eddie took Waylon’s cum and had rubbed it, lined it on his own penis, though he knew maybe he shouldn’t without permission. It was just an aftereffect residue that had innocuously arrived with him in his room with his raging boner. Seeing Waylon gasping in pleasure, each unit of his mouth tremble and his face muscles own the pleasure, was more honest than him gasping out of fear and revulsion. The base part was there was no coercion. Eddie had looked up to Waylon who gave him reassuring looks. Or, did not give hints of wanting him to stop. Eddie would never transgress that line EVER AGAIN. Besides, he wanted Waylon’s affection and love. Not his disgust, apathy and revulsion.

 

Eddie started coughing and almost hit a chest drawer. He collapsed in his mind, gritting his teeth in pain, biting his lips so he doesn’t howl. It was very painful in his abdomen. And it wasn’t healing as fast as he wanted. Probably, he needed better supplies and better first aid? Surely, but that was a bit of a luxury wasn’t it? Eddie passed out. The pain, the lightheaded feeling, it was too much of feeling out of his body but also in it.

 

“Hey, wake up!” it was a large yell, yet it didn’t seem to go beyond the room, water splashed on Eddie as he was jerked awake seeing Tom, the younger Twin, looking at him worried, “Get up man!”

 

Eddie coughed as he felt water go into mouth and into the wrong pipe, “I..I…arghh…up…”

 

“Good.” Tom patted his back. “What happened…?Oh…” Tom looked down, “I am getting the first aid kit. I am getting bandages. You are moving around a lot. You are not well, allowing time for the wound to heal, you know.”

 

Eddie heard Tom go about getting what he said he would. He didn’t make loud noises but he groaned and moaned and shuddered a bit, in intervals. Everything felt disorganised and disjointed. And to him nothing was making much sense. Everything was somewhat blurred.

 

After a few minutes, the blur lessened. Eddie looked at Tom, who smiled: “Stitching up the dressmaking; making a nice partial corset of bandages for him.”

 

“Shut up.” Eddie says this a bit reflexively, not out of any spite, or any feeling to really disengage. A moment passed when he said: “Thank you.”

 

Tom lingered a bit, mid-stitch, then said, “Eddie I think you need to sleep more and move around less.” Then with more intensity, “Your wound is not going to heal properly. And it hasn’t been. You have been running around and doing all kinds of things when you should have been resting.”

 

“I am aware of that.” Eddie said, “Yet,” looking at Tom a bit softly, “I can’t stay put with Waylon and Miles around. In this cabin with so many things to do. I get restless.”

 

“Sure.” Tom blinks, “But…” he smiles, “I think you have to try to save anything for later.” Then he winks, “Even those pursuits.”

 

Eddie sighed, closed his eyes, “Thanks though.”

 

“No problem.” Tom fixed the last of the bandages and the put on the last of the stitches.

 

 

* * *

 

The Walrider was now a bit away; mesmerised by fireflies.

 

Miles thanked God. For the fact the Walrider went away. Dancing with fireflies was much easier on him.

 

All he did was look at Waylon. In the small pool near the lake, they had both stripped down.

 

Waylon came along. Interested to see what Miles and the Walrider would so together.

 

But, it was now what they were doing together.

 

Miles’ breath, stuck on his throat, near the muscles, he gulped.

 

Waylon was much more beautiful than he imagined.

 

This ambience, this glade, Waylon and he naked; it was something so beautiful he couldn’t write it in one-go, in brevity’s language, but could be simple and short, just not so much.

 

Waylon looked at the muscle movements on Miles’ chest. They reminded him of Fibonacci spirals, the choral mathematically containing waves of poetic oceans. Math meeting language; filling up poetry, completing it. How could two disciplines meld like sex? He couldn’t understand. Yet, sea-shells contain only memories of an ocean. Miles was not merely a memory. His breathing was an ocean in itself. Math couldn’t explain that too much; unless you had to chain of fixed matrices in calculus but then the chain would be bio-reversible and he didn’t know if calculus could handle that.

 

No one language was enough.

 

Waylon looked at the tan, silky chest with accents of roughness, some garden where a well of heart lay. The muscles were so in sync it reminds him he too had a heart, and a libido, things that pump in kinesis but also do not use the projectile locomotion. Physics reified and defied. How beautiful could the human body be? God somewhere is chuckling at his rudimentary designs he is sure. And it was rudimentary to only see the person who shared your love and not know them in other ways.

 

Waylon put a single, index finger…touched Miles’s chest. As though he was readying to type a code, a friction, then used his hands like a pen and guided it along. Hearing Miles breathing quicken. And then whole hand put it where his heart lay.

 

Miles cupped Waylon’s face. Trailed his neck with a finger. Brushed slowly as he was turning a page in Waylon’s chest; some book of love he hadn’t read before but now was desperate to read. Swirled his hand of his nice, tactile nipples. Hearing Waylon moan a bit, breathe more. Do the same to him. Making him moan. Louder than Waylon. Making him bite his lip. Rub his nose against Waylon’s longer one, more toned one. That chest that breathed his life was more than a book, more than codes and machine-like. Waylon was all of those things and also none of those things. Fully never one thing. Waylon thought the same.

 

Waylon then looked at Miles’s accented sides and hips. Slowly moving both his hands on them. The curves there, the ribs emblazed with muscles, long lines etched out on the sides, made him feel he could be there and be embraced by them. Miles looked at the same muscular hips and the curves in Waylon; while he had more curves on his hips Waylon had a longer base like his long nose. Well, Miles almost chuckled, wonder what longer base he might also have? His ribs had excellent angles of bone. It made Miles shiver seeing such excellent bone symmetry that could enmesh him, cup him and make him whole.

 

Looking at each other, now down there. Half-erect each. The tactile understanding of each other made the body eager. Move in a pull to consummate. Yet they couldn’t; not yet anyway. Under the woods at night; with small light, fireflies flickering, a moon coming and hiding itself above the clouds in interval — they both had showed longing, understanding and melting with and of each other.

 

Waylon’s erection was a bit darker than his. His penis shade a shade deeper. Miles was lighter and semi-inch wider. Though the muscle concentration in Waylon seemed to well more vibrant. Nice balancing indeed. They both grinned and each other and chuckled. How lovely was this?

 

Their eyes then hooded. Then they embraced one another.

 

And with that came their first, open-mouth, tongue-ardent kiss. Waylon slipped in so easily his tongue that Miles thought he just dived into some pool. And Miles wrapped his tongue around so easily in a finesse grip of Waylon’s that he thought Miles was doing turns in water. Waylon knew how to drag, stay and push his tongue, Miles knew how to adjust its heaviness and tease sensations out of places. Both motion and delays working up more foams than the sea. Teaching each other their techniques: soon a sync, a salivation to be savoured, longings longed and met. With necks bent, mouths wide, learning the lessons of each other they just knew. Kissing passionately and knowing each other. Waylon and Miles moans in intervals.

 

After a few minutes, the kiss ended.

 

They pressed their heads against each other, their noises, their lips slightly; the moon full and bright, came out, fireflies roamed a bit here and there. Their eyes hooded, then a bit clear. With faces pressed. They looked at each other.

 

Their muscles and the anatomies of their spirits knew.

 

In each other’s embrace.

 

Lust and love, affection and appetite all harmonised into one chamber of a new tongue.

 

Their synapses glowed like the fireflies.

 

They were all flames, clouds, oceans and different earths inside.

 

A geography of love opening and landscapes crafted by senses.

 

Orbiting each other, engulfing each other, knowing the other in fusion but also independently contained.

 

More than seas in shells and letters written on screen and paper.

 

It was more than organ and muscles.

 

Yet, it had these. And made them a new terrain. Half struck by an axis, half meshed in surrealism, half of many spheres.

 

Smiling at each other. Their eyes and body talked in a way that heightened the other but also affixed a place, going beyond that…

 

Love was there, easily and complexly…souls feasting in the largeness and smallness of it all…and all these middles, gaps and frictional pauses that made their all the more flexible and complete…two flesh and souls floating and also into this wideness in the narrow-eyed needle which knew both ink and sheets. All these paradoxes, juxtaposed parallels where amplified by the fireflies, their nakedness in the dark illuminated by natural forces and their own senses with their sixth sense of love, those fireflies and their hands, their feelings, like shards of sun flickering in an ocean of moon, stars in their fingerprints, ascending and descending with new constellations…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, basically the last parts where a mammoth investment, exploration and exposition of camerashipping. WOOOOHOOO Waylon and Miles! I am taking it slow. Heightening their senses and hopefully yours. 
> 
> Well, on the other pages, Eddie is not recuperating well because he is not resting properly. Tim and Tom are also understanding themselves: there's was a difficult journey, I know I can't do it full justice in one chapter I need to really flesh it out. 
> 
> Yeah, female Walrider, Nana. All Walriders have the male or female physiology though they can be gender fluid, or not cis I suppose. Nana isn't really cis so there is that. But they pick up things differently too. 
> 
> Now, I do plan on going soon to XX1. The very first Walrider. I need to do that soon. And get them out of this cabin. This ain't cabin fever. I didn't mean to make them stay for too long but well but the story couldn't proceed without some of these delays. After all, if they were too much on the run it would be too difficult, at least from my view, to placate Wallie. And the running around does initially have a bad effect on Wallie. Travel sickness. Well, the camerashipping part of Waylon thinking of code while touching Miles was inspired by a Jeremy/Waylon fic XD and discussions with Tien does inspire too. 
> 
> Going back to Travel sickness, Walrider needs to get used to traveling. That is because it is not innately built to be curious. It stores sensory information on a high level and it can overload without acclimatization. So Wallie has to learn to filter and feed on a different level, maintaining his curiosity and growing consciousness too. It is gonna be hard on period. And he will eventually have to learn how to open doors XD
> 
> well please tell me what you thought! :D


	23. interaction ≠ intimacy ≈ loneliness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly other characters centric. I tried to include our primary protagonists but it got too long and I decided that I am writing REALLY long chapters and people have other things to do than read a fanfic XD. 
> 
> I wanted to explore Darian in this chapter, Wernicke and Jeremy. I know I had Jeremy-centric chapters but I needed to write more on him as he is pretty much doing nothing of action but has a lot to think about. I wanted to talk about his family and how he feels being in this position as a captive to the company he once so loyally served. Also in this chapter is Henry. I never really write about him. The guy is a fucking mess too but he is more counselor than supervisor; he is a capable scientist as his sister Helen though.
> 
> Another thing: I need to vacate the premises as in make Waylon, Miles and co. MOVE like SERIOUSLY. Sorry, about the delay!
> 
> Additionally, I am over stressed from work and kinda depressed so yeah.
> 
> Ending of this chapter has a surprise.

 

**interaction ≠ intimacy ≈ loneliness**

 

A part of Darian hated Waylon. Some of the interactions he had seen made him realise something. Waylon had innocence as well as sexual charisma. Such a paradox combination to him was rare. And he could not partake in its delights. Darian knew he had shortcomings, or various kinds of lacking, peccadilloes or whatever the fuck one would want to call it — he just had them. Darian could pretend to be innocent, naïve and inexperienced if those types of tact were required. But feigning it was _not_ the possession of it. It was something truly odd that Waylon possessed. It did not seem he was sexually inexperienced. That delicious body language that emitted from him that Darian saw was pretty evocative of desires. Yet, something told Darian Waylon possessed this even when he was a virgin. From the dossier he read Waylon was married, maybe now divorced as he was no longer with Lisa Park — Darian remembers that Lisa’s name before getting married with Waylon was Callaghan or something. Waylon had these markings; probably because Waylon desired in a way that had _shyness_ in it, shy from utter lasciviousness. And Darian never really had that from the beginning. And Darian grew a bit depressed. Well, Miles had this quality to some degree as well. Miles could talk a bit wittingly, bluntly but he did seem to _care_ a lot about Waylon and Waylon about the other. Darian had never really cared about anyone aside his father and Wernicke was not a good enough substitute. Darian also never cared about any of the maids that had pined for him while he lived in his father’s secluded villa somewhere near Geneva. The butlers and maids were fodder to him and his father; they were chewed and regurgitated in the stomachs of sex and lust and odd game-playing. None of them mattered to either him or his father. They just existed for orgies and true lovemaking was reserved from him and his father.

Well, then his father had to ruin it — by marrying that _one_ bitch…never mind…she had seduced him out of being only Darian’s love. Though Darian took care of it. Darian had to. And it was sad but…Darian just lived in that one moment…his feelings had never been for anyone else but his father…that’s what he always felt anyway…

And now that he was back in his quarters, in the underground base, Darian felt a bit lonesome. The bases started from top then went deeper underground. Darian had a bedroom in almost each floor. That is because Darian was a valued member of the consortium. And being Wernicke’s protégée and adopted family was pretty interesting. Darian’s quarters in the uppermost floors varied; some were lavish, with attachments as boudoirs, so on and so forth. The ones in the lower ones had fireplaces too, look like infernal dungeons (something Darian requested but was also opted by some of the head architects as they knew about Slicestorm and his assignments). Some of them were spacious, others were not — Darian was whimsical and could just start sleeping or eating anywhere when he was in consortium fortresses so the heads did just slight gestures to please him. After all he had a good success rate: tortured undesirable elements of the company very well and did nothing pretty abrasive enough to warrant their hate. Well, he was _hated_ but that hate was ignorable. After all, good employees were at times as hated as much as incompetent ones in a corporation like Murkoff, whether they had the wool pulled over their eyes or not.  It happened because people didn’t always liked others who did do their jobs; at the end of the day those people built a system of suspicion. Yet that didn’t mean anything as Darian was such a good taskmaster that they had to give him his whims and  Darian made sure it stayed that way by doing a good job.

Many types of people hated Darian — the architects surely did when they came to seek Darian’s approval thinking he would not get their “hell-like” underground attributes to his rooms — who somewhat taken aback when he did and requested more lights and shadows, in two of them he even wanted a sex-room. Yeah a small portion had leather but it was mostly made of really luxurious carpeting, couches like beds, divans, swings and even a small water fountain. Well, it sure was more work. Not to mention he made them sharpen some of the accents of purgatory, made some of the ceilings higher to give the illusion of depth when you sank into covers with mattresses he ordered to be well extra squishy. One of his upper rooms had a water bed which he intentionally leaked or did strange things with it; like once he called an intern and spanked him, made him come and then gave a hand job. Other time he called another made him eat some crepes with him, took his pen and stabbed leaks into the bed. Another time he had two come over and had sex with the young man and woman. Of course, these sexual scandals were not really so bad for Murkoff. And the interns had a hard time knowing who this Darian was. Once he had an intern come over and eat a full-scale lunch with him and walk alongside him in the gardens, who commented at what he did in the company; he responded consultant and when she implored further he just told her to just enjoy the walk. They came across another intern who said hi to his peer: Darian slapped his face making both interns nervous and uncomfortable.

Darian was hated for his random mood swings, his compulsive raging nature or sadomasochistic one (once he made an agent beat him for no reason and then urinated on said agent after he was done) and then he did prank and troll people on random too. The scientists hated him; he pulled down some of their pants, asked the bra size of several women, sprayed water guns on the researches when they tried doing hydrophobic experiments and was always making difficult the task of simply taking blood samples from him. Some of them wanted to still expose him to the engine, or do hypnosis and at times he agreed. Other times he did not. And other times the scientists decided best not too. Habrok got angry easily; he had killed once a scientist named Christian Grey and easily harmed others. Furthermore, too much engine exposure did not always help; after a point it might plateau or become static, in fact make the Walrider sluggish or bored and Darian sleepy. It was already hard to get Walriders with active people; some could only use theirs when asleep or put in coma. Darian was few of the success stories and they desperately needed to keep it that way.

So, he was treated privileged. The company where they were staying was actually one of Murkoff’s sibling companies, or rather secretly in collaboration, it was called Ironsmith, and it was an older company than Murkoff. They also made genetically modified plants so they had many gardens. Darian knew that Murkoff had loads to deal with right now concerning Mount Massive so keeping most of the Mount Massive survivors here was a tactful. Wernicke travelled a bit less. His health restricted it but moving alongside the gardens every day in the wheelchair was good. Murkoff and Ironsmith had been giving him supplements and this helped him move about shortly and not have so many tubes sticking out of him like some joke of a porcupine. However, there was still some progress to be made and owned by his dad. Supplements were also given to Trager and Blaire. Trager was carried by a wheelchair amongst the grounds, semi-surreptitiously. The fake story that went alongside with it was that Trager was a recovering relative of an Ironsmith executive who been in a car accident up in Alaska. Seeing that parts of his skin was off and they had to do treatments to him. Blaire was never allowed to go outside.

And Darian knew that in a month and a half, or approximately two months, Blaire has not been allowed to go anywhere. And this made Blaire uncertain, suspicious but had to keep his mouth shut. Granat and the consortium believed that Blaire was a flight risk. Blaire had been too loyal and obviously he hoped to get compensation or be reinstated. There was a possibility neither of those would happen. Blaire was being kept healthy enough so help speed stuff along. Even if he was reinstated they had to prep him and make him work. Darian knew Blaire was lonely. Once he seemingly owned the world. Now he owned nothing. Rather he was as disposable as the Variants or more so. His body was not a good research specimen unless they wanted to study what the meds they were giving him amounted to so there was no reason to keep his corpse around as well. They would probably send it to his family. Darian read in a file that his family, consisting of a brother, an older sister and parents, would completely accept him. Well, not his ousted, practically disowned brother, didn’t he read that dude was an entomologist somewhere studying insects? Oh, well, that was not so important to remember.

The intercom buzzed. A sleepy Blaire answered: “Yeah. Is this routine medical check?”

“It can be a routine fuck check.” Darian cooed into the receiver.

“I will be down…which floor are you in?” By this Jeremy also knew that he had different rooms. Only recently did he find out that they all belonged to him. That made the former head executive of Murkoff cringe. Darian was not only assassin. Crossed between knight and queen on some strange chequered chess board of the consortium, he would be lying if he denied that the youthful platinum blond man scared the fuck out of him at times.

“Nine.”

“I am not allowed…” Jeremy bit that word as though he was killing off bile and liver in one whole teeth episode, “I mean. I am not really allowed to go up beyond level ten. I don’t know why but I am not really allowed.”

“Perhaps, a small exception.” Darian giggled making Jeremy cringe, “I mean, do you have any other stuff to do?”

“What the fuck do you think?” Jeremy growled. “The last thing I am gonna do is probably put on weight and go to cupcake opera. Fuck man, they are feeding me three times a day and snacks in the middle. Like seriously it’s like I am some fancy pants viscount or some shit in Victorian England.”

“It can’t be that bad Jeremy.” Darian chuckled.

“I will gladly switch places.” That tremor of anger in his tone impressed Darian. That how determined Jeremy still was. It excited him in places that were the typical excitable and not so much.

“Can you handle the Walrider?”

“If I can fuck one is it so difficult?”

“It has to be more than fucking…and Jeremy you have to get your hands dirty. You have to kill, torture, be fast, run and collect info. It’s not as comfortable as fucking.”

“Well, I have been sitting on my ass the entire time all this time. Moving around and letting out all that frustration by beating the crap out of useless fucks wouldn’t be bad than sitting—“

“— In an executive’s chair?” Jeremy realised he had slipped a bit — fuck, a lot, this fucker knew at times when you seize the fucking day moment; Jeremy shouldn’t have admitted that. But it was a mistake. Hope he didn’t have to pay too heavily for it. Frankly, possessing a Walrider did not interest him. There was no way he was gonna be guinea pig for a bunch of pencil pushing scientists. And having a Walrider would be incredible only it can be bug-tested (literally as those nanites look like bunch of mites floating on air) and perfected enough. But even so, he would love to have one as a pet, near a CEO’s chair. Too much exertion of that kind aside a good adrenaline gradient bored the fuck outta him. “Well,” Darian sighed, “You don’t mind working in the field when you are not playing housewife for Murkoff.” Darian laughed a bit, throatily, but with some praise in it, sexuality too, “That is an admirable trait there Jer.”

“Well, I did navigate all over the asylum by myself you twat.” Jeremy spit it out, feeling the singes and stings of his own admissions, also, he sometimes wished he could slap Darian (ironically he once did and then kissed him during sex), that cheeky Lolita-Goth boy knew how to pull moves, both in and out of bed, he seriously was this femme fatale of the masculine world. In some ways that was sexually exciting in its own way. Jeremy was a bit sick of it but he was turned out by this predatory-predation behaved young man he interacted with, Where the fuck was he when I was running Mount Massive, if things would have been different, he Trager and I would really do hot-shit that make all the other top brass drop heads and know not to fuck with us, then again, Waylon would suit among us fine too, Jeremy’s pants tighten. A threesome with Waylon, Darian and himself — fuck, that would make angels cum and weep in pleasure. Sometimes, Jeremy also had to admit that Darian was more feisty and experienced in bed. Perhaps he could tease out some hidden kinks in that goody two shoes hot man? After all a good lay with Waylon for both of them would be interesting as anything in hell and between. “Besides.” Shaking his head out of it, “You are housewife too, Walrider is your maid and you do the Tom and Jerry with Murkoff rats.”

“I love an interesting raconteur like you Jeremy.” Darian grinned widely, Cheshire prowess in those lips, “And I love a good verbal save anyway. You surely know how to make a faux-pas into a faux-do or a double entendre. That is pretty impressive.”

“Yeah well you are talking to the fucker who fucked and kept alive Mount Massive.”  Jeremy bluntly, arrogantly, expressed his true exploits and achievement. It was what made him king in a way, or was a crowning glory. The crowning of teeth enables a good bite. Teeth with their little teeth-prints are so important; when we chewed we only knew the fat of it, not those little details of bone and jaw and the thin.

“Well, let’s talk face to face. Where are we being teenage girls and guys when we can go all the way without permission?”

Jeremy came up to the ninth floor but it took some major bypassing. And it felt good. There was a spring in his step. Breaking the law was thrilling though the hypocrisy lay on the fact that people like Jeremy loved imposing laws to others which they themselves would never follow. And people with self-respect did not really break the sterner laws; after all why would one serve the per capita income of prisons and mental asylums? Why would one be in a statistic glazed by one act? Why would they fill a quota that never benefits them or their loved ones? — For Jeremy’s limited ideologies this only mattered. Breaking the law. However, he never purely questioned how his sad ass self brought him into this fuck in the first place. To people like Jeremy a self-reflection was as good as Socrates hitting up hemlock in a bar, flirting with the dishevelled bartender who served it to him.  They did not think of self-reflection as Siddhartha leaving his Brahman upbringing to search for knowledge or clarity nor did they find it useful to swerve away from things Siddhartha himself realised could have been done better (as Hesse penned it a little.) Nor did they find reflection or even alternative pathways important.

Jeremy had indifference and disdain for his younger brother, Garrett Blaire, who became a bug-fucker (as he called it) and could have stayed at business school and they would have made it BIG. Jeremy hated that Garrett chose Lepidoptera his sub-field and “chased after butterflies” like some avid “fruitcake.”  Garrett brought shame to the Blaire name. Well Victoria and he did not. Victoria Galvin, nee Blaire, was Jeremy’s older sister. And a married socialite. Who once wrote some bio-papers on female sexuality and was leading in her home economics class but now just handled tea parties and had a taste of kitty parties. Her husband was a business tycoon ten years her senior. And their parents Patricia and Albert Blaire were happy that she had so happily married with a gold nugget. Victoria was 39, close to 40, he had a short chat with her when he was put in this Ironsmith building. They hardly talked. But Victoria sounded sad. Sad that Jeremy was “so busy”. Did she sense something wrong? She had wanted to play gold with him but Jeremy had to decline. His physical condition restricted him; so did the authorial ones. Ironically, she also invited Trager, who Jeremy knew had a crush on his older sister. But Jeremy had been authorised on any status of Trager: dead or alive (knowing that time Trager was dead he just spoke that Rick had errands to run). Then Victoria had called when the Mount Massive shit became a bit too there in the ceilings and the stench was unmistakable. Jeremy just said he was handing the situation. He could hear sobs on the other line. Victoria and he always got along. It was hard not telling her the truth. For both their sakes. Yet, it was a dangerous situation.

When he entered Darian’s ninth floor room there was an aroma. Jeremy realised they were gingerbread cookies and he didn’t know if he should welcome it or looked at it with a bored expression. Yet, he remained neutral. Not out of the poker-face habit alone but also out of sheer confusion. Darian came dressed only in an apron. It was pink and it had frills on its side. The classic one with all its fetish labels. And Jeremy had been wearing a blue shirt, untucked, silk, with trousers made out of fine good quality chiffon mixed with cotton. Darian’s coquettish behaviour did not always engage Jeremy. Sometimes, as he felt and reminded himself, that it disturbed the fuck out of him. And he was not really found of nude-and-aproned thing but — oh, well, beggars couldn’t be choosers right? Even in so called classic _domesticated_ and _submissive_ postures Darian held a power that went way beyond the context of restraints. Some instinct told him that even if he were not in this post-Mount Massive situation or in this Ironsmith building, that if all was still the same in his life and Darian came in, he still would be this powerful, lascivious, moody, unpredictable and sexually potent. That thought scared him a lot. Because he knew he was right. But it also amazed him, excited him, when he passed that point of fear — Darian made new rules himself by being antithetical to those notions that made these things feel passive. By wearing the passive fetish in so actively active a role was quite spectacular, genius and also something that made Jeremy question those roles. Are they really passive? People made fixities to suit them but the truth could be broader than the broad we professed to fuck; ‘cause maybe she or he had already fucked with us and we don’t know it. Chills were paramount.

Darian kneed him a bit. Jeremy almost fell with a groan of surprise and displeasure when he was caught by Darian, who took him in his arms, in his tilted, half-fallen disposition, and kissed him. Slowly, softly, chastely — then mouth open yet tender, then intense, roughly (as in passionately), not the rough that aimed to bruise for some voyeuristic rush to the brain. This kiss lacked the usual fetishism of things between them. It made distrust become apparent in Jeremy’s eyes for a few seconds. Then he recovered and kissed passionately too, the chaste thing wasn’t really for him at least not with this guy (he envisioned it the first part of a conversation with Waylon; hated himself for being nice to the nice guy but there was a comfort that he was unschooled in that kinda kiss Waylon would obligingly teach him with something natural, that was his idea on it though). Darian and he moaned a bit. But there was not the usual messiness. Both seemed to relax — until Darian deftly picked him up, bridal style, and put him on the bed.

What happened next was the usual proceedings. Darian joked about his cock being a regular gingerbread and that Santa (Jeremy) should test the “product” for some holiday feelings (though it was way past Christmas). Jeremy bit softly in the erect member of that he unsheathed from the apron and just well sucked him hard, giving nips where necessary, then eating Darian’s cum. Then Darian dropped Jeremy’s pants and said he wanted his ass and fucked Jeremy with abandon saying how his “cookies” (all his sex organs) were tasty as fuck. Then told Jeremy to slap his rear and fuck him with Jeremy did. Then they just lay down next to each other and just breathed.

“Do you feel lonely?”

The question didn’t really catch him off-guard. Though, he wondered why Darian initiated it: “I do.” That came some cops of honesty from his usually suave, lying mouth.

“Did you feel like this, even before this?”

Jeremy knew he meant the incarceration for “safety reasons” present of his life. “Well,” Jeremy just risked it, “Yeah.”

“What did you do about it?”

“I played golf with Trager.” Jeremy shrugged, “Mostly. And then I just was a bitch to my subordinates. I guess,” Jeremy breathed in, “I am good at what I do. I am good at commanding people what to do, be an executive as in make those decisions. Usually, my days went by with doing our so called charities and me fending off Doberman from the other side of the field, you know like Miles Upshur, or feeding lies to the media. I haven’t had the time to be fully lonely. And sometimes I sat with a drink and let that go in with so ganja or some other shit. Being lonely, hell when I just smoked I see the ash falling and it was therapeutic. I don’t think I considered it much fully. I didn’t want to. Those are the sappy shit losers think about it.” Jeremy ended with a confession, “Well, used to think.” Looking a bit affectionately at Darian, “’Cause there is no way we both are losers.”

Darian chuckled but then stopped. A moment passed, “You did have a lover or lovers right?”

“Yeah I had many. Mostly women. Occasionally a man would catch my attention. Mostly a young intern, a security guard or some whore. Socialite males, a bit less. But they all were for fucking anyway. I mean I never had or will have love on my mind about them. I bet the girlfriend or whatever she is, I left behind when the asylum shutdown happened, well, she must have moved on to a colleague of mine by now. I hope she did because I didn’t want her to stay with me for long anyway. And, I don’t expect her to care why I am missing. I wouldn’t care much if she went missing. Quid pro quo. The best way.” Jeremy said the last part laughing a bit. Darian was a bit quiet. Sighed a bit.

“But you loved Waylon a bit, enough even if it was small in you.” Darian said this with some smirk, but it wasn’t meant to tease Jeremy.

“Well, I don’t know if it’s love or lust. Or, whatever. Yeah I did care about him a bit. I was mad at him. But at the same time I had to admire the fucker. Well, the admiration came later on. He sure had resilience and I liked that. But we aren’t a couple and I don’t think we ever will be.”  Jeremy looked at the ceiling, this one looked it had a bit of towering effect, there were small glass pieces on the sides of that triangular sort of space up below the bed, and it glimmered coloured glass and stones, as though they were in a palace. Such lavishness made Jeremy a bit nervous. How both savage and beautiful could this guy be?

“You sound a bit sad that you guys won’t be together.” Darian says quietly.

“I don’t know if it’s sadness. All I know it may not really proceed the way I want. But that’s okay.”

“You want him to be around and you just be top dog again in the corporation umbrella?”

Jeremy smirked, “Something like that.”

“I guess that does make sense in your life.”

Then with a pause he continued suddenly elsewhere: “Why is life lonely?”

Jeremy looked pretty surprised, “Huh.”

“I mean we come into the world with many people, many places, sometimes we got loads of things too. Yet why are we lonely?”

“I don’t know.” Jeremy shrugged, “Gotta ask a philosopher that not an executive like me.”

“I think we may things we may not really want or want things we won’t really ever need. I wonder what Habrok is to me, aside being a Walrider. What does he serve aside my missions and sexual longings? Habrok will never be company, even if he is a constant companion and we share a companionable existence. Because he isn’t really —“

“— someone. You don’t really treat him as completely separate to you, do you?” Jeremy realised, blinked, got closer, moved to his side, their heads touched, dark brown hair melted within platinum-greyish locks, their hair and eyelashes made a canopy for conversation, they both looked at the other intensely, Darian underneath Jeremy, Jeremy rubbed his forehead a bit against his. Darian did the same, sighed, and rubbed his nose. As though they were rubbing ointment, getting reading for something.

“It’s hard to see him always as a separate entity. I mean he is but he doesn’t really offer much to me. I just think of him as some mushroom on my garden, some parasite. We can’t really talk much beyond a point. And Habrok sometimes makes me feel more lonely. I know he is a different being than me. But at times I just think of him as a shadow. Some shadow mixed of me and with me but also entails other things.” Darian then turned to his side too and embraced Jeremy.

“That’s kinda philosophical and I don’t know.” Jeremy caressed his arm, side by side they were now like lovers, “I mean I was wondering where he was.”

“I told him to fly around, do stuff, eat stuff.” Darian caressed Jeremy’s chest, “I mean, I like to be _alone_ at times; _properly_ so if you get what I mean.”

“Yeah, sometimes his static also gets loud. It’s annoying.” Jeremy chuckled. Then just risked it again, “I am glad I was lonely. Well, I did here. I am glad you were a bit too and we called each other.”

“Do you think lonely makes us yearn for each other?”

“I don’t think it’s simple as that. It just was here I guess.” Jeremy admitted.

“I think being lonely then could be a wakeup call, a soft alarm that you should do more for yourself and your life is worth living. After all, life is the search to make loneliness happen in parts but the lyrics has to be something else too. And I guess, we all will die alone. That is the truth. Even if we die with others we are all inside a body that is our own and that won’t change or fuse with another in death or when we were born. Life is, and I guess afterlife are not for being alone. Not always. Like clouds in the sky we are all designed to find something and someone that makes us a pattern here.”

“You being all philosophical makes me kinda tired.” Jeremy chuckled, “But it’s nice. It isn’t lonely or alone. It’s with you.” Then smiling, “Thanks, even if it is just for today. I am happy I got into floor 9 or Cloud 9 as it were.” They both chuckled to that.

Falling asleep each other. With arms on each other, both realised the other. And both realised one thing.

This is probably one of the first times they ever truly were honest with each and truthful.

And it could be the only and last time.

The talisman of memory would undoubtedly preserve this.

* * *

 

Wernicke looked at Jackie.

The boy had changed his sex so the girl in front of him was older in age. Nana was surrounding him like some odd smoke. Dispersed but around.

“Hah!” It was sharp cry of surprise, Wernicke looked at Henry. His expressions stoic but also soft. Efficiently he had scared the shit of the old doctor who almost fell out of his wheelchair; that is well Henry caught him. There was a look of distance in him. Sometimes, looking at those eyes Wernicke felt almost like his old reflection meeting him: of sadness. Of something, a feeling, maybe a more rising of bile kind of feeling of loneliness?

Either way, Wernicke did not like that feeling emanating from Henry because he did not like him much. After all, the last time they properly interacted Henry somewhat teased Wernicke about Turing. Which made Rudolph wish to punch that cocky bastard. Sometimes, he truly was more annoying that his sister; a true bitch he was.

“Henry, you surprised me.”  This was just a cursory way of saying what-the-fuck-want but Wernicke just was being nice on it.

“I know you are not happy to see me.” Henry put Wernicke down on his wheelchair. Then slowly touched his face which Wernicke instantly pushed aside. Giving him a stare of fixed indignation. Henry just sheepishly smiled. “But I decided to administer your medicine today — you can trust me you know.” Replying the last to Wernicke’s aghast face, old and tired and frightened, though if one looked closer, the eyes had become sharper and the area around them had tightened muscle. Wernicke himself did not need the assortments if IVs, oxygen tanks and the occasional catheter anymore. If anyone else also noticed, his mouth moved normally now when he talked. Made better words. The paralysing effects of his one-time minor stroke that affected his health so badly had hardly any discernible trace except being in some medical record. “Well,” Henry chuckled, “You are lucky to get this treatment; top secret Murkoff samples in a Petri dish I am not even sure my sister fully knows of what. Or, even if she does, won’t tell me.” He shrugs in a playful manner making Wernicke cringe, “There are four vials today and Helen says you need to rest.” Henry smiles, “Don’t get too attached to Jackie. We don’t know when we will lose him or her you know.”

“I want to discuss those things with Helen. Not you.” Wernicke snapped and grumbled profanities in German as he folded his sleeve. “Where is Lewis?”

“Lewis LeBlanc is fixing your room.” Henry said casually, “I mean. I did tell him to help prepare the room for you. You are to feel drowsy and all that a bit later.”

Wernicke shrugged, “I guess.” But there was a distaste in his look.

“You did not like what I did to you before did you?”

Wernicke slapped Henry hard across the face, “Watch your mouth you fuck!”

Wernicke trembled so hard he had to sit down on his wheelchair again. Breathing hard. Really hard.

“I apologise for that Rudolph.”  Henry rubbed his stinging cheek, “Good news is your strength is coming up better.” Henry smiled brightly, “That was one mean hit!”

Wernicke just calmed himself down and fixed his shirt up again, “Where is Sasha and Vivian?”

“Sasha Ouellet is helping you finish some data collection that she needs to present to you about The Lucid Dreamers.” Henry explained, “And Vivian Slavic has decided to talk to Danielle about Trager and Blaire’s reports. She also had to talk to Derek Eisner.”

The last part didn’t seem so good — “About what?” Wernicke’s attention was a lightning bolt.

“Well,” Henry spoke quietly, “I think Darian was a bit mean too her.”

“That stupid punk-funk!” Wernicke shouted, “Why doesn’t Helen tell me these things?!”

“Well, my sister is busy with Walrider Project, the Mount Massive chaos and also report assessment of resurgence of Project Valkyrie. She is too much of a workaholic. I tend to more domestic affairs I suppose.” Henry laughed. “But don’t worry it was anything sexual or physical, Darian just scared Andrew Lanes but you know that Lanes pretty much is incontinent now, so the smell reeked and Cindy wasn’t very amused. I can understand her irritation. However, like Lewis, Vivian has always supported you and respected you. Well, all three of your assistants admire you and are loyal to you. Vivian decided to personally chastise Darian for his antics. There is nothing to really worry about but perhaps a phone call to Mr. Eisner later is a good thing.”

“Fuck, Darian and his silly games.” Wernicke said as Henry used a syringe to administer the first vial — wasn’t sure if Wernicke was swearing to reprobate Darian’s actions or feel a tinge of the vial or both.

“Well,” Henry pushed the second vial quickly — the colour of this was psychedelic strawberry pink-red (the former one was more deep and sepia without the glow) — seeing it brought a strange vertiginous spell to Wernicke who grabbed Henry’s arm for support though he was sitting down, “I have told Slavic to push on it, or maybe Ouellet should. Sometimes, I deter calling them by their first names. Especially, Ouellet, I don’t trust her you know.”

“Why not?”

“Because, she is so intimate with Cindy Eisner. They have a good understanding. And Vivian doesn’t trust anyone. Except you and Lewis. I like her prejudices. It exemplifies what we want in our organisation.”  Henry noticed that Wernicke looked unable to form non-slurred sentences. Henry smiled, as he put on a darker blue vial into the syringe and inject it in Wernicke. Wernicke looked quiet now, though his sense were still up, he breathed raspy and alertly as though not trusting anyone with his health. The choice was prudent.

“What we want in our organisation need not be static. I do not think it is her intimacy that bothers you as much as the fact Ouellet always shows signs of not liking what we do as I myself have reservations. Vivian and Lewis are more or less drones, like Danielle. Ouellet is more capable than them. She always has been. I like that about her. I trust her more than the others.” Wernicke’s admittance did not seem influenced by the drugs. When Henry tried to push in another vial Wernicke instantly held his hand up and pushed it down. His eyes intensely held a determination that made Henry recalibrate his smirks and tricky nature, “Hold on while my body digests this.” His voice held a weight of years but also a strength we usually ascribe to youth, strong, but it was not a youth speaking here, nor was it the serums doing this, it was his own attributes, “These are important talks. Do not think me belligerent and ignorant enough to hold these without an audience and manner of sobriety.”

Henry nodded in respect, “Of course, Herr Wernicke.” The “Herr” part always comes to Henry or Helen when they respectively stress something about him; they may do this also when they tease him like the words “Grandpa” was also used in alternate situations but here there was no teasing it was pure admiration.

“I will definitely have a toss at that foolish Darian.” Wernicke took some moments, coughed and cleared his throat, “Does he think me a loser? Or, you and your sister to be fools? We all know that Darian sleeps with Jeremy Blaire. And I feel this is beneath Blaire but I know the man is pinned like some fucking hog on a table with an apple in his mouth. I cannot really feel his sexual inclinations to be so degrading but that Darian is a bitch to use it so maliciously from time to time. It is not endearing. And sometimes I just feel like punching him to kingdom come.”

“But you know, Darian is a good asset. I like him more than Helen. I always commiserated with him, empathised with him.” Henry smiled, “To be honest, he is sometimes my crush.”

Wernicke looked unimpressed. “Well,” then softened, “Darian is pretty handsome. Beautiful in that exotic way.”  Carefully considering the facts, “He looks a bit too pale, a bit too White, but it suits him as his eyes are the darkest thing about him and he has a sharp jaw and nose. Though his chin is softer, his cheeks are between being defined and relaxed. Well, his body is, understandably athletic and understandingly nimble. He is not too thin, he has a wideness but not so wide. His hips are aquiline but also soft around the bend. Naturally, he instinctively draws out an appeal.”

“I am surprised you studied him so well.” Henry does not tease, he said this quietly.

“Yes, I had.” Wernicke looks, “It is in my nature, profession and curiosities to understand bodies and the minds that works them and is worked by them. Darian is someone I could have been really been attracted to if I met him randomly in a bar. We would talk and sip drinks. Though as I hardly socialised in bars in that manner I would be taken by his guile, his abilities to seduce, though,” Wernicke blinked, “It wouldn’t be mostly in my favour. I would understand that Darian would most probably not love me. But, the word, that word, you know _nerduh_ , in me, would want to know what Darian wants. And I would soon figure he doesn’t know himself and I would feel maybe we can communicate but he would be bored with what I do. He would have his tantrums. We would become domestically violent with one another. We would then cry. I would not understand why someone so beautiful, how someone so beautiful, could terrify me more than science. Who would spit at the study of science but still be a suitable candidate in its annals of study. I would never think of him merely as a primadonna. I would not understand his rage, his insatiable sexuality but I know it comes from a loneliness that we both shared. Me, feeling science is not enough to understand feelings and other questions and he feeling that his sex and charm would not serve as balm for whatever he wanted.” After chuckling a bit, he continued,

“Truth is men and women cannot have one simplified, single ambition. Ambition, even if its core is singular can be branched out. Darian and I would cheat on each other; we would inflict harm and tease each other, only to cry in each other’s arms and can only fall asleep with each and we would be not only each other’s rituals but also each others’ comfort. Yet, because of this we might find hard to love each other. Even if we both understand that love is not ideal we would know we are not going past that stage where we could be more communicative and vulnerable with each other. Darian would leave first. For, I would be a coward in those things. But as youth do today he will give a note saying ‘Thank you for all the tears and smiles’ and this would release both of us. We will think of each other often. We would think of each other when we are doing new work and we would never underestimate each other but we would overestimate each other as well. Then we would mellow out. Burned to crisp by our own self-loathing and our incapacity to push forward.”

Henry was quiet for a while, then he said, “That was interesting. I guess you are somewhat intelligent Wernicke, I mean your genius in science is non-questionable but it is nice to see you do have a vivid imagination about these kind of things.” Then smiled, “I am not teasing you. I do think it is important that you thought all these things.” Then he pushed in the last vial. The smokey liquid made Wernicke jolt and shudder. Twitch and move as though he had felt the course of electricity through his body. Henry watched with his monotone face. Light illuminated on his glasses, they were oval-shaped and twinkled with the reflected image of Wernicke twitching and thrashing about, then a glimmer came forth from his own eyes. Henry seemed pretty excited. As if hoping results would gradually become better. More appropriate. More perfect.

Henry in the last few moments seized Wernicke and carried him bridal style.

All this time Nana looked on quietly; static firing. In her male form she seemed a bit bored at times. Probably, just waiting for Jackie to wake up. Nana affectionately brushed the head of Jackie, “That Granat is a strange one. A bit like us.”

Henry carried Wernicke and soon looked at Lewis. The other man rushed forward and punched Henry on the face and caught Wernicke, “How dare you touch the doctor?”

“I have been touching him you buffoon; I didn’t use a robotic arm to inject all those vials into him!” Henry looked livid as he also went forward and punched Lewis. Then deftly also slapped him across his face. Lewis almost dropped Wernicke but staggered to keep his balance as Henry spat at the floor and wiped his face, “You hit like the dog you are.” Grabbing the collar of LeBlanc’s shirt, the two men stared alarmingly at each other, “Ever touch me again I make sure you are dog-food.”

“Says the freak.” Lewis spat to the floor as well.

“Know your place you bastard. I am important to Wernicke. Not you. After all, would Zeus trade Hades for Ganymede?” Henry laughed, “Errand boys are all errand boys. You are not even Ganymede.” Then laughing louder, “It is Darian who can be the perfect cup-bearer. You are too ugly. Hmmm, you are…” putting a finger to his chin, “Cerberus, only you have three asses and not heads. That’s why you are shit for brains.”

Lewis looked enraged for a while. Then just snickered, “Yeah sure whatever freak.”

Henry just shrugged and walked away as though he didn’t care. Lewis tucked Wernicke into bed. “Dr Wernicke please go to sleep well…you need rest…”

After Lewis left Wernicke felt entering into a dark viscous dream. All black and moving. Out of the black abyss stretched out arms and limbs and all the things you feel a body needs. And soon eyes looked at him. Blinking and a small humming erupted. As though he was back at the asylum and the variants who were that Martin’s brood where humming a hymn of being accepted to whatever afterlife they had though was the gateway the Walrider represented. Wernicke sighed in his own sleep and dream. The Walrider was not that kind of gateway. Though, he wondered why people thought in such rudimentary binaries; it escaped him.

In his deep sleep he saw the Walrider give a toothy grin. And that grin, then opened, a mouth really wide – a host of white butterflies came out mixing in with the black viscous world and soon fragments of this space turned and become black butterflies and mixing together occasionally to be grey and coloured and be that of various types…

…Wernicke’s eyes shot open – to see the face of Henry near him. Henry’s nose was close to his – and Henry was on top of him – registering the fact that he was also naked did not seem to disturb Wernicke so much. As though he expected these kind of antics.  “Did you dream of,” cupping Wernicke’s face and licking his cheek, Henry uttered, “of butterflies?”

“If I did, what does that mean?”

Looking at a nonplussed Wernicke made Henry grin, “We are not sure completely. But that means Billy must be doing great.”

“Billy talked about his mother again.” Wernicke looked sad, “Like he misses her greatly; like no one can ever be like her.”

“Mothers are usually liked that, biological or not.” Henry playfully moved to and fro, nakedly, on top of Wernicke. Anyone witnessing the sight would probably question the sanity of these people involved; for good reasons too.

“I want Billy to pass that.” Wernicke’s eyes narrowed, “Billy needs to understand that his mother, in form or memory, was holding him back.”

“Did you think the same about your own parents?” Henry looked a bit annoyed as he asked this question. Listlessly, he looked at the headboard, elegantly designed, carvings of Vikings and Normungander was etched into it, the Serpent who dissolves the world in vomit of etir so that it can start again anew or was it to stay in a purgatory? Henry though this story of the world in purgatory of etir reminded him of stars dying but not becoming black holes but neutron stars and pulsars. Destruction as way to beauty follows a lot of mythology. Renewal as well. However, nothing seems final. Nietzsche talking about eternal returns was talking about the same thing. This static-ness of returning was something Henry hated. Because it meant you could only be one thing or another; this binary of forms was tragic.

And he hated Nietzsche anyway at times except his Apolline and Dionysiac stuff. Even though that was binary, he found some use for it. Right now, he thought who was what in Wernicke’s life – given traditional hegemony the father was the patriarch and the mother feeble but in Nietzsche’s life his mother was equivalent to a dominatrix minus the kinks and sex and all that. She was more patriarch than him. That is why Nietzsche fantasied about feeble women or so he thought. Or, did it, he forgot but what he heard was Nietzsche was a bit of a misogynist, but he could be wrong. Most Western philosophers did not know how to think about women in his opinion anyway. They could have easily gone and ask prostitutes, maids and housekeepers.  Was Wernicke’s father more strict or his mother? What did he think of women and even men? Wernicke was pretty much a very negative version of a sapiosexual at times. Henry liked that he valued intelligence and loved Alan Turing for it yet…that’s not always enough…ask Hawking’s first wife. Being _only_ clever wasn’t always everything.

“Yes. I did.” Wernicke had taken a time to answer that, “After a while I knew I had to dissociate myself from them.”

“What were they like?”

“My father had been a biology student and admired Darwin and others for a short time. But then he became pretty extreme in religious views. This also went to my mother. I remembered that my mother had several miscarriages which made him feel he should have an affair or marry someone new. Leaving her to be taken care of her pretty vitriolic brothers. Soon, she got a lover. But she was scorned for it. My father’s newer and younger wife bore him only a sickly daughter, he called her Magdalena. She also had several miscarriages. You are of Magdalena’s brood. My father was trying to rule both women with an iron fist; my mother pretty much told him to fuck off but his younger wife suffered for a long time until she just left with Magdalena. She married a younger man. For the time being she was acting like my father towards her new husband. Abuse begetting abuse. But then when the young man made her see his love and her errors they happily consummated. My stepmother was kind to me. I saw her bear five more children after she was healthier and happier. Magdalena and I were more interested in science. We studied a lot together. However, Magdalena was more interested in fossils than in newer science; she has always been sceptical of things my younger step-sister. Yet I held anatomy to be of high yield and soon Magdalena and I talked about the mind as well. I remember we both inspired one another in this feat. She was talking about fossilised consciousness; does bone mass carry the permutations of thoughts of a creature once lived? That interested her than mummified bodies and organs. Because to her though she respected that culture she wanted more non-human intervention methods. Magdalena was one of the first females to study something that wasn’t knitwear. And she and I were quite close.”

“I think you were a bit in love with her Herr Wernicke.”

“That I was, Henry.”

Wernicke sat still though he could see and feel that Henry has started to playfully teasingly talk to him and finger trail his chest – which Lewis had taken off and he was only robed in his underwear so not much – and Wernicke had to look at him coldly, “This is technically incest is it not?”

“Said the fossil to the living anatomy…” Henry laughed at his own remark, then seriously looked at him and winked, “Don’t be a prude Wernicke.”

“Don’t be rude Henry.” He countered and smacked his hand away.

Henry pouted a bit, “I might get you–“

“You can’t easily harass me either in my head.” Wernicke looked confident as Henry recoiled his smirk a bit, “You know with these serums in you might just get tangled and lost in my mind.” Wernicke now chuckled, “And I do not think you wish to take that labour Henry.”

“Fuck you Wernicke.” Henry looked cold and detached. As though he would punch Wernicke’s teeth off.

But that last comment was ironic. So, Wernicke chuckled a bit.

“Well,” Henry went to Wernicke’s side, closed their distances, and licked the older man’s nipple, “I’ll just wait.”

That last action earned him a slap from Wernicke, “Behave yourself.” But then Wernicke groaned as if truly very tired.

Henry just lay next to him, “Like, I said…” caressing his cheek, “I will wait.”

Then they just went off to sleep. In the coolness of the room with the right temperature left at around 23˚C or 73.4˚F, minus the humidity you could find in the sub-tropics, Wernicke twisted in a smoke realm, which was not merely a physical feeling or a psychosomatic manifestation. Soon, there was a lull of static; crackling into some kind of mitosis of shadow-shapes. Globular and membranous, also becoming smooth, as though they were dark brain cells of different animals and different expressions.

In between these dark objects melded the white spaces that he knew intimately as well. He could hear the voice of Billy mouthing to him: _“Father, are you sure this is the right thing to do?”_

And he smiled, “Child, are you sure you are in the right place now?”

So, Billy just grinned, _“Father, you are always doing amazing things. You will go far. But then…then we might both drop…”_

Wernicke ignored the sadness in Billy’s face and eyes. It felt too close. As if Billy was Icarus and telling Daedalus that he is to blame; that the same faith awaited them again. That Icarus risen here without the wisdom of the fall would just fall again.

And Wernicke did not _want_ that or _need_ that now. He just needed something and wanted something antithetical to what was needed and wanted _before_. Wernicke did not wish to go on like Sybil. He was not going to be a small piece of bone hanging to the tree of knowledge, having children of the consortium, such as the petulant Murkoff, foul Fairfaxiden and Vicious Volsung tease him and want to hear the so-called crypt keeper say “I want to die.” No, the legacy he wanted was different. And though he wasn’t sure how far he will go, but when God up there has given him instruments to do something, why not be keen to have a new dimension?

Henry fell asleep a few minutes after Wernicke. Content in his nakedness; in the nudity of all his desires, foibles and perversions. Snickering feeling how that asshole LeBlanc probably jacked off to these kinds of moments. Around half an hour later Henry got a call, none other than his foxy sister: “It is about The Cleaner.”

“What about our suit wearing beauty?”

“The Cleaner went almost on a rampage at Mount Massive. That bastard is now AWOL. I need you to help me keep a track on about him. Use your higher mental prowess to track him down; or, at least get a message to Darian and Habrok that we need some containment action required – why the fact you snickering you petulant motherfucker?! Where the fuck are you anyway?!”

“I am with our Grandpa.”

There was a sigh on the other end, “Are you nakedly cosying up next to him?”

“Yeah, kinda like that.” Henry then just smiled, “The words The Cleaner and ‘containment’ don’t seem to bode well. I thought he was your ‘vulture and your eagle’?”

“He still is you fucking gerophile!” Helen sounded furious, “I allow him to have mad bouts of ‘reason’ or his ‘design’ or ‘logic’, whatever he finds comfortable from time to time.” Helen said this part calmly, proving a proof most probably, “I know he bought back Silky Simon. So, it wasn’t a waste.” Then more rigidly, “I am just not so pleased that he seems to have given slashes on Simon’s body as if his sadistic nature got the best of him and he was toying with the man’s bandages. That is not good specimen preservation practice. I need to have a talk about etiquette towards the research team with him. I mean if he defiles the specimen from the original position of attributed defilement it is hard to study said-specimen.” There was another sigh, “You are quiet; you are not interrupting me? I detect sarcasm and anger.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You know why?”

“Sorry for calling you a gerophile.”

“Thank you.”

“But this situation needs to be managed.”

“If Walker was still alive he would be more than pleased to contain The Cleaner. Any other detail I should know about? Gimme me some minutes –“

“He wore his cloak.”

“Oh, fuck…” sighing from Henry’s end came, “Look, that means he is doing a doozy we don’t need to be so alarmed about. I need this too Helen.”

An understanding short breath, “Yes, I do get it.”

“I will inform Darian and Habrok, if they are within my mental vicinity, or just call them. Either way, they will get back your pet bird.”

“He isn’t a bird. He is a sort of man. Slender Man to be precise.”

“Sure.”

The conversation ended. With his mental links he instructed Darian of the situation. Darian looked annoyed but said perhaps he knew where the The Cleaner was. That this particular agent was being too overambitious and that he has _no right_ to interfere in _his_ assignments. And that he wasn’t sure if his Vulkodlaks was with him too. But that he and Habrok would get out the cloaked Slender Man and his friend in no time.

Henry slept quieter then next to Wernicke.

* * *

  
The red thing swirled almost like some sort of flower, blooming or a flowering tree or something with dark, really charcoal like accents.

Wallie looked fascinated. What was this thing? Was it a _garment_?

Cloak.

Red Cloak.

In the distance, almost a half mile away, he heard a broad howl of a wolf. Wallie strangely understood this howl. It was not regular. It seemed to be seeking someone or something.

The Red Cloak draped seductively over a thin figure. The mouth seemed more skin than flesh. It seemed almost not there…a bit like his…There was teeth…a slight flash of a smile. Wallie felt strange. Like he was dealing with something not human but having human like skin, purely preternatural. The red hooded figure whose eyes Wallie could not see looked almost bored at him. There was that feeling of being dulled by the Other that he sensed. They were not the same beings. That much was apparent.

“Do you know?” It suddenly spoke with a sweet voice, as though it were almost singing, “That this tree here,” it pointed towards one nearby, outstretched bony hand, “Is a tree that grows roses?” And then continued, as though it never waited an answer, “There is a story, a fairy-tale, by a noted author, called Hans Christian Anderson. It is about a bird dying, stabbing her heart and singing till the end of night, to produce a red rose from a tree in winter. The bird gives her life when the tree says that it produces roses but cannot do so as it is winter. The lore, if I recall correctly, was during winter time. The bird gave her life for a human boy to proclaim his love to a girl. The girl did not give any attention to the rose. All that bird’s sacrifice for love became nothing but a petty gift tossed away. Her stabbed heart is just a stabbed heart I am afraid. The moral of the story seemed to be that well great sacrifices can be nullified by the cruelties of avarice, selfishness and inhumaneness. I also inferred it as something quite different from that, though that is acceptable.” Then it grinned again, or was it a ‘he’? “A red rose that doesn’t flowering naturally is easily spotted wouldn’t you agree?” and he continued, again, without waiting, “A bird’s heart is not a red rose. Blood are not petals. You, are not an _original_ Walrider!” the last part was barked as though the sweet voice became a broken organ, and Wallie actually shrank back at the vehemence, the supernatural aura surrounding it, it hurt his static-like form, “You are just a Xerox of a human nightmare so-called copycat Walrider.”

“Why the red cloak?” was all that Wallie managed to say.

“There is another fairy-tale…Have you heard of Red Riding Hood?”

“No.”

“She wears the red cloak. She wears this to show the sign of her stain.” Another toothy grin, “And she talks to wolves all the time.” There was another howl now, closer, sharper, pitched more, with an urgency, “Vulkodlaks…” he said absently, ignoring Wallie, “I need to tend to that. Hmm, it’s a shame that we could not fight Walrider. You are a mistake I should very well be cleaning up soon. The Cleaner cleans after all.” The man wearing a suit, with a red tie, and his silky crimson cloak soon vanished in the shadows of the woodland night.

Wallie stood stunned.

Wallie felt his static crackle.

And he felt a weight on his chest.

Fear. Hard pounding. Heart-clenching fear.

Wallie almost sank down.

“What…what…how do I face someone like that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. I decided to put in a Slender Man. I was talking to Tien and he actually told me all the popular mythos right now about Slender Man. I decided to keep some of his original design but create a new mythos. I actually am inspired by Tien saying that in one adaption the Slender Man is called The Operator so I was like okay I will call my one The Cleaner. I always wanted to put more mythological creatures in my fanfiction to make it as a realistic, supernatural world where many creatures lurk around (BTW if you see teaser poster of Outlast 2 there is a girl with a strange weapon; apparently you will still run around according to Red Barrels but the setting and situations look more like a town. If the girl is the protag wielding an axe-pick sort of weapon that's awesome but if she is like a Variant type enemy that's awesome too.)
> 
> My Slender Man takes allusions, as aforementioned, to Red Riding Hood. There is a BIG Reason for that  
> And yes Vulkodlaks is a werewolf well, there is an interesting mythology too to that. Let's say that Vulkodlaks has allusions to another legend as well aside werewolves. 
> 
> I was thinking on putting a sparkling Vampire in my story as well but with a dark twist XD Move over Cullens and feel the dazzle.
> 
> But this story is going somewhere.
> 
> ANOTHER EDIT: 
> 
> I want the next chapter to have some ultimatums. Now there is the subplots to Blaire, Wernicke but also my OCs Genevieve and Carmen. I want this to be a multi-POV story so that is why I am doing this. If this was a game you could probably play as the Walrider, as all the characters getting somewhere or not. 
> 
> There will be deadends. I think I am inspired by Pegacorn and Painty too. Like there is the deadend to certain clues and stuff. I know long time back In just mentioned a character called Zayn Ahmi. Zayn Ahmi is gonna be around. And I need to introduce Zeichner and all of that. The truth is this story had gargantuan ideas from the beginning. Now that Outlast 2 is coming out, it is safe to say that those characters and situations may immerse in this story because Waylon and Miles are not supposedly in Outlast 2 (Oh C'MON RED BARRELS!)
> 
> A deadend: Spoiler for story but I wanna give it. Vera links may become a sort of a deadend because they are an independent organisation who just work like many organisations and their personnel feel at points they are way in over their heads. Murkoff feel the same too. 
> 
> Oh yes beforehand if I forget you guys can remind me
> 
> Volsung Pharmaceuticals  
> Fairfaxiden International 
> 
> Both are companies present within the consortium just as Ironsmith. I think the CEO is gonna be Dr. Ivy Ironsmith but who knows. Some of my headcanons may not see print here but I decided to build a very detailed world even it be a fictional one.
> 
> 'Cause I like world-building. 
> 
> Oh btw there is a Christian Grey reference here in this chapter hehehe – HATE 50 SHADES REALLY :/
> 
> Oh yeah Magdalena Wernicke. Maybe, she will be around :) 
> 
> EDIT: I just found out that Victor Surge doesn't obviously let you make Slenderman stuff so mine is Slender Man (and this isn't really comercial so) and maybe I am gonna change his name later. In fact, his face is more like a Walrider's. You know if you see Grinning Men from Buffy then his kind is a bit like these sorts of amalgamates of strange Rake creatures but wear suits. Okay, I think I should call this species Urvines. There Urvines is a better fic idea. Oh there is a female Urvine too hehehe.


	24. Storm Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I came back to my home country. Was really busy studying. Still am. This is like something I realised I had to update. We are nearing the end of "Enigma Perception" part of Shadow Engines. Also, I am psyched for Outlast 2. Saw the playable demo. I may include Blake Langermann and Outlast 2 elements in this story. As you already know before I knew anything about that game I was including school scenarios in this story. Namely of Jackie and their Walrider. So, seeing the demo's scenes were kinda like wow I feel that scene. This chapter is short and I am sorry. It is a the calm before a storm.

 

 

**Storm  ≈ Side**

 

 

“Miles, What is up?” Waylon easily slips in. They have done something pretty erotic, romantic and intimate. They both were still acting shy though. After all, they didn’t know how far their relationship would go. If it would be terminated easily. Both Waylon and Miles may not have admitted it. But, they both had their fears. They both had something to knead into them, in their spines, bone-crunching agony inside. Miles more ostensibly due to being a host. Waylon, for having a family he could return to. Though, returning to a family did not mean in the same ways. It was mostly to also do with what Waylon wanted and needed. And if Miles could not provide that they would have to separate. And if Waylon could not support Miles. That was another issue as well. Many observers would say they were being careful. And they were. They were on their toes. Sometimes, they moved their feet, curled in their shoes — Waylon did, it was a nervous tic. At other times, Miles did as well. Did it to remind himself he had human bones. Human things. After all, he felt sometimes so out of his fucking body he wanted to scream Bloody Mary — and that was tiring him out in many ways.

 

“Not my dick.” Miles smiled, “Yet…” the playful lingering of something they both could do make both his and Waylon’s mouth part for a bit. Waylon looked like he could and would tear him apart with sensuous teeth — and who said nerdy programmers didn’t know their stuff? But Waylon looked determined. Shook his head — as if getting lust and emotions like love out of the way — for now.

 

“I am serious Miles.” Waylon said this, tentatively, after uttering some force, “You don’t look well. Are you okay?” And going so caringly, putting his hands to the sides of Miles, like they had known and grown with each other for years, making breath escape out of Miles’s throat as though Waylon were something akin to lungs to him, aiding him breathe more smoothly, “Are you eating properly? I don’t think you are sleeping properly? I don’t think you are baby…” Miles and Waylon both realised what Waylon said and they softened, “I don’t mind sleeping next to you; if it makes you better.”

 

“You just called me ‘baby’,” Miles slowly embraced Waylon, breathing down his neck and face, as if giving him air-kisses, not blowing flirtatiously, but soothingly, after all he can be something akin to lungs to for his Waylon-babe, “I love the way it rolls of your tongue. You break my firewalls just by uttering it the way you do, baby, darling.” The last word made Waylon shiver a bit, “I am sorry did I…”

 

“No, it’s okay.” Waylon chuckled, “Actually, I am happy to know it can be said without the murder-cry of Gluskin voice.” Then more seriously, “Miles,” he caressed his face, “Something is up with you. Are you…” he said this carefully, slowly, “Are you regretting that we saw each other, like naked, I know we didn’t do much, but…” he didn’t see Miles’s alarmed expression, “I mean, no one, I am not gonna force…you…I mean,” Waylon looked sad, but smiled, “I want you to know you are nor obligated to be with me…I –“

 

Couldn’t finish. Miles just caught him in a fierce yet loving kiss. “Waylon-babe, it isn’t anything like that…” after mutually kissing each other for three minutes the conversation broke through, “I am just…I mean…” Miles tucked himself in Waylon’s chest and Waylon gently cradled him, “I feel really confused.”

 

“What’s the matter?”

 

“Waylon, Wallie has been acting strange.”

 

“He has?”

 

“Yeah ever since he went wandering the woods with us you know ‘bonding’” At this he and Waylon had a goofy grin, shy-like, Waylon looking down on this sweet, rugged face looking up at him, then after a while it dissipated, “It’s just. I know it was a day ago. But I thought Wallie wanted to explore the woods more. He did. Yet, I think he stayed in the fringes a bit too much. Like…like he was afraid of something. Like he wants to stay more near me. And here I was thinking he liked going farther away from me now.” Miles looked intensely, “I don’t know why, but his fear, makes me feel a bit scared too. It’s like I know there is a reason, but I don’t know, Wallie does, and it’s annoying the fuck out of me Waylon.”

 

“I believe you have tried talking to him?” Waylon easily touches and caresses the darker brunette strands of Miles, it is cross between paternal and lover’s caresses. Miles loves it. He gulps up this affection by nuzzling deeper into Waylon’s kind, broad chest. In some odd static he hears Wallie calm down too. Well, that’s good, Miles thinks.

 

“Yeah, asked him straight-out.”

 

“And?”

 

“The guy pretty much called me a bitch and ignored me. Tried to pick up a plate and broke it.”

 

“That didn’t go well.”

 

“No shit.” Miles had been talking from being covered partly by Waylon’s chest, he looks up now, frustrated and confused, “It’s just I feel his fear and panicky vibe. I don’t know what’s going on.”

 

“Do you think it has something to do with us?” Waylon questioned as Miles stands up straight again, “I mean. You and he, share a body now. Do you feel he is feeling jealous? Or, that he thinks we are going too fast?”

 

“Well, Wallie started trying to know sex a lot before. I mean we are doing sexual stuff…” Miles tousles Waylon’s hair, “I think he would be happy.”

 

‘Miles, it may be overwhelming him.” Waylon says carefully, “I know he did sexual things too but…” Waylon looks now intently at Miles, “I mean that was like just him knowing. We are two people who are well, “ Waylon blushed, “Serious enough with each other. Even if we don’t know what this will lead to. And I hope it will lead somewhere. Miles, I don’t want this to be a novelty.” Waylon looked hurt, he closed his eyes, “I mean I know we are in a difficult, non-typical situation, and I don’t want us to just stay together because we have no choice or rather this situation is too overwhelming by ourselves. I mean, I respect whatever way it goes. But.” His voice wavered, “I need something for the long-run. Even if this is selfish of me. Forgive it. I feel I really want to be selfish right now and just go for it.” Grabbing Miles unexpectedly, making Miles sigh a bit as he softly, chastely kissed his throat, “I want to be able to do this. For such a long time that even forever would know it has its parallels.” Then loosening his grip as Miles looked on a bit sheepishly, seduced and impressed, touched by the brevity and length of two forces of his actions, his words and palpable push; yes, he meant it as a joke before but he could feel his member readying to see ‘what’s up’ if this continued. “But going back to Wallie. We shouldn’t overwhelm him you know. I still find him like this strange teen.” — Okay, up, that didn’t continue so it was gonna do down and not in an interesting, orgasmic way, or even the lows of just being comfortable.

 

“You know.” Miles looked irritated, “I fucking hate Waylon.” And he grabbed Waylon now, desperately, “It’s like babysitting some weirdass monster. I mean he isn’t my kid you know. And I don’t wanna take his permission to date you or be with you or anything.”

 

“Well, I don’t essentially think he is a part of you either.” Waylon commented. “There is always going to be problem defining what he truly is — which is very human, indeed.”

 

“I think human is easier to say.” Miles half-snorted.

 

“Do you really think so?” There was now a solemn cadence in Waylon’s voice, he looked down, a bit cast away, “I mean. After all we been through. The asylum and its denizens — calling them patients would be highly inappropriate, seeing no one was intended to treat them anyways — do you really, truly, feel humanity is easily definable, can be compartmentalised?” Waylon looked too serious, it shook Miles a bit, “I don’t think you and I, ourselves, are easily human anymore either.”

 

“Compartmentalisation rhymes a lot with mental and all of that. Mentalisation to what one could wonder.” Miles just spoke now, rubbing his hands through Waylon’s hair, a calming procedure, “I mean, Walrider first did come in compartments didn’t he? As a blot, inky swarm that just seems like some manifestation of a Rorschach test.”

 

Their posture was at rest. They held each other, at arms’ length, “Look, Waylon, I just am scared…or feeling Wallie’s fear and I am just really confused.”

 

“I guess, I understand a bit.” Waylon palms nicely Miles’s arm, “But don’t stress out too much. Try to breathe. Try to take some rest. Maybe, if I talk to him?”

 

“Well, you got magic words. Your words do soothe.” Miles says this with a soft grinning sort of way. However, he notices that Waylon is not impressed. “What’s wrong?” Miles asks this a bit obliquely, not meant to offend, but he just thinks it minor fault of his. What he didn’t realise, until a bit later, that Waylon was fuming, “Uh,” cautiously he approaches the topic, “What’s wrong?”

“My words don’t automatically soothe okay. I am not some guru of enlightened knowledge!”

 

“Wow, hey,” Miles raised his arms up and grabbed a restless Waylon, “Calm down buddy!”

 

“I, sometimes,” Waylon gritted his teeth, “Hate doing this. Talking to others about their problems.” Waylon looked like he almost wanted to cry, “I know I shouldn’t centralise this but seriously no one cares about my problems as in talking about them…” Waylon sobbed a bit, “I had a discussion with Eddie. But Eddie is well Eddie. I have to also watch out for him you know. That man tried to castrate me and give me boobs! I mean, I know he is coming out of it but sometimes I just feel so uncomfortable. I try to not feel it. But…” Waylon sobbed a bit harder now, “It will take time. And then, you have a Walrider. I don’t know what your emotional status is. I don’t know how to approach you at times. And sometimes I get annoyed we mostly did…” Waylon looked at Miles squarely in his eyes, “…sexual things; at least recently. I am not, well, I love being sexual a lot.” Waylon blushed a bit, “But in a good pacing. I mean, I don’t want us to only be slumming it on sex and sexual acts. I feel unhappy about that.”

 

“Well,” Miles looked a bit annoyed now, “Sorry, your highness, but this ain’t dateworthy settings you know. Maybe, if you program it differently.”

 

Waylon pushed him, firmly, but without much friction, “Don’t patronise me, you journalist dickhead.”

 

“I followed you through until the sexual part.” Miles clenched his jaw, “Waylon…” a bit tenderly now, “I mean, this setting, I know we kinda had a date when we were near those pools of water but yeah it wasn’t really well — dinner and show –“

 

“I loved it that we had fireflies.” Waylon calmed down as well; his voice reaching softer corners, a tendering motion.

 

“Yeah, beats candlelight.” Miles ruffles Waylon’s hair, and realising he loved how Waylon was being patient. Though, he shouldn’t take advantage of this patience either. And he knew Waylon was on check about Mile’s patience as well in the same fashion. Right now, circumstances were precluding normal rituals of courtship — not that it really mattered. Generic methods of courtship were nether superior nor inferior and need not be always rejected or redacted. However, he truly wanted to cook a meal with Waylon and just eat it. Be from the start of the process to finish. They could start with some creamy appetisers, some cream of mushroom soup with garlic bread — something comfortable, homey, not too fancy nor too common, robust in its allure to conversation and appetite. Then some multiple things for the main course; some pasta, creamy, maybe then steak or some chicken with some lemon rice? — dessert can be cake, just very good cake, vanilla and almond layered chocolate cake. And all he wanted to do this entire time is eat and share with Waylon. They could talk about all the “hard stuff” — jobs, educations, different ideologies, journalism articles, computer programming journals, how cybernetics is shaping the world as we know it — to all the “soft stuff” — family, Waylon’s sons, what he liked and loved about Lisa, what Miles liked and loved about Yesfir, old high school flames, college and university flames, flames formed when the concept of flames were foreign. Miles didn’t mind talking about his Dad, the feline expert. How he grew up with a house of different cats. How there were humane tests and some questionable ones. How his Dad wanted him to be a interdisciplinary neurological researcher and he decided against it. Leaving them in a weird precipice of both disappointment and affirmation. Miles hasn’t heard anything about Waylon’s parents but seeing his middle name was Korean that meant he had Korean lineage. He loved the way that name moved around in his mouth; devoured him rather him devouring it — Kwang-sun, what a beautiful name.  

 

Waylon was actually thinking of something similar to that. If they had done something more in the pool. Something with more kisses and maybe they bathed each other in the spring. The image of both talking and being sensuous like that made him almost shiver — bath talks could be fun; they could trade recipes for the most simplest of foods — a simple twist in the sauce for pasta, a better way to make breakfast, using a particular kind of jam — Waylon would confess he learned a bit of baking muffins and cupcakes from Lisa and that he liked doing that at times, but he also loved barbeques, ribs and maybe just sumptuous steak, corn on cob and also something salty or sweet salad. Or, even if it was not outdoors cooking after a bath a well made chicken sandwich or chicken salad and some nice green tea and they kiss and talk and then cuddle in covers. They might just prefer a pressing intimacy. Or, they could make love, leisurely — like a goodnight lullaby. Making Love, were, in some perverse, yet alluring way, a form of lullabies for adulthood. And the sweet lulling sleep that came afterwards, felt like you are entombed yet also freed, with the cusp you shared with the one you love. There is something there that was never just program. And Waylon realised it now. No amount of code mapping could truly map that in only mathematical ways — needed more than that to map. Souls were condensations and extensions of many elements and it expressed through the body with its cellular, skeletal, skin and muscular layers was like the dark matter and string theory playing cat’s cradle using each other.

 

Truth is both of them were grown men. They weren’t nineteen year olds who sole interest may have been fucking. Many teenagers like that. Fucking is fun. It is also pretty less complicated. You don’t wanna offer yourself; sex is not really considered an offering. It is respite. It is an episode. It is fun. Waylon had been a bit different. Casual sex innately did not always suit him. Because he really liked doing intimate things. And Miles almost had the same airs. The only sex Waylon did do casually was somewhat juxtaposed to, now seemingly, long time ago when he was thinking of Miles and him in university together. Miles a charged guy in a fraternity party telling him to lick off cream from his chest. The casual sex he had always had exchanges that he could ground comfortably enough, and it was limited. One of his casual encounters became a small relationship. Waylon liked having things lengthen like codes; part of some intelligent, sensuous design. Ironically, for Miles, his intermittent sex with the same people, men or women, had the same half-caked relationship on them. And some of them also became small relationships. And the intermittent sexual encounters also appeared in Waylon’s exploring. Miles also wanted something charged that he could lengthen and put some depth to. It just was how they were. They had their reasons. They liked people enough to go to bed with them and they liked the morning after even evening after when no sex was needed or could be done again but all they could do even if the other did not seem as shaped as them to talk and be intimate was to hold briefly warm hands and have mug of tea or coffee. And then say a gentle goodbye knowing they might want different things.

 

“Look, if we can.” Miles smiles, “We should talk more. We can go out in a town. Or, we can go out by the stream again.”

 

“Yeah.” Waylon smiles too, pinching Miles cheek a bit, making the other automatically clasp Waylon’s hand, “We can have some coffee again.” Waylon then almost dropped his hand, out of a sudden sadness, Miles caught at and before he could question, Waylon uttered, “Miles. I think we should also be well, you know, researching more.”

 

“Yeah, but these are hard demands on us.” Miles looks almost away, then smiles, “I mean we have Walriders and many other things in between. Sandwiched between the rock and hard place. It’s important we also relax.”

 

“We are relaxing a bit too much.” Waylon looked a bit annoyed at his direction, “I mean, we have already had some reprieves you know. We should well, just get cracking down to it.”

 

“I don’t wanna.” Miles almost snorted and surprised Waylon with his answer, “It’s just too much of something. Too much what I am normally used too. When I read I sometimes feel Wallie’s curiosities too and then I remember flashbacks of what happened…it’s becoming too much of a burden for me.”

 

“Miles, why didn’t you tell me this before?” It was demand, though it edged on concern.

 

“Waylon, I don’t always have to tell you everything.” Waylon looked mad as Miles said this, “I mean stop being guru goodness all the time. It actually doesn’t help. I am not something you can keep yourself occupied with as well. Don’t you have also yourself to think about?” the last statement steered and garnished with severity, almost borderline shouting out; then Miles stopped and reflected.

 

What the fuck did I just say? Miles realised that biting his tongue couldn’t stop it.

 

Waylon looked at him calmly for a moment.

 

Then he sprang at him making the journalist raise up his hands as though he was attempting to ward off the Walrider (which was horribly ironic because he was now host to the Walrider and somewhat the creature itself) only to have his collar jerked on by Waylon, “Fine!” Waylon looked livid, teary even, Miles was speechless, “Maybe I am more concerned about you guys! Sending you that anonymous tip has ruined, RUINED, my life!” Waylon was shaking and Miles looked, looked endearingly, here he was also seeing Waylon, a wounded man, a dishevelled person, trying his best, he loved Waylon and calm, he loved him enough to take both with good measure, after the complete person has a whole deck to offer, and beyond the deck of the game we perceive initially we are just looking at playing or just shifting through, “ I wished I didn’t play heroics!” Waylon started crying, “Maybe Blaire was right and I should have played along! I am not special! I am not important! I fucking don’t know how to register all this! You guys have all these new abilities or stuff! What do I have?! Just some Rorschach test residue that seems to just stick to my head as some pins and needles game! I am nothing in this…” his voice trickling down to something low, pitch, a sadness that aural markers may not immediate can convert so it is carried on lowering shoulders, “I need to vicariously assess something as well at times. With you guys. I can do that. It may be selfish. But not entirely so. I also do it thinking of your well being.” Waylon looked Miles straight in the eyes as he said this. Though for a moment he had looked down, Now looked away and sighed then a bit annoyed, “You wanted me to scream and have a breakdown again too.”

 

“No, Way —“

 

“I felt it. You think it’s abnormal for me to stay calm —“

 

“Well, then, isn’t it Waylon? You don’t have to be model employee or patient anymore —“

 

“Staying calm helps me too Miles. Don’t fuck with me. We are not the same people. I know letting off steam is good but I don’t want a quarrel for no damn reason okay! We should just well…” calmer now, Waylon looks at his trembling hands, squeezes them, clenches them on and off, they stop a bit, vibrations start again, adrenalin mixing with anger, and also emotion mixing in with passionate restraint, how beautifully parallel the body could move and then Miles just stops, takes his hands, nuzzles them against his face, lightly, placating. Waylon’s shaking stops. Miles rubs his own own hand against the swift and ridge bones of Waylon’s knuckles, like sweet horizontal colons they punctuate his skin as if that part were a run-on sentence. And Waylon feels at ease. Then Miles runs them on his own arm, a place near his shoulder, and his hard part of the jaw and Waylon likes the ministrations. Though, he isn’t sure what they are for. Waylon’s eyes lull a bit, there is something erotic about this. But mostly it’s calmly. Tactility of some mode of apprehension.

 

“I am not gonna fuck with you.” Miles smiles, then a bit chastising, as Waylon had also used the same tone, “Don’t fuck with me too.” Then tenderly again, “You are strong to do so much. I am so proud of you.” A tear came out of Waylon’s right eye, scientifically, it had been said, tears of happiness starts from the right, “Look, Waylon. I so marvel at your strength at keeping it together as you do. But, you are not only a marvel you know. You are not some spectacle to be looked at. You are human and you are a living entity who needs his moments of anger, frustration and even downhill depression, obviously, not severe one but you know sorrow. You need to understand that you can cry and rage on some thing at some times. I know this has been difficult for you but Waylon, it’s difficult for all of us too right? I mean. Each of us is affected differently. I am thinking the most depressed of us should be —“

 

“— The Twins.” Waylon showed that he knew. Miles and his mind were at sync, “They never knew what we even advertise as normal. Or, they were treated with the same amounts of decency.” Waylon looked a bit ashamed, “When I see them I get ashamed. I feel ungrateful if I get depressed easily or if I act on it.”

 

“But, Waylon, sure they treat you a bit of a paragon at times.” Miles winked, “But sometimes we also show those feelings to show them that we are just like them as in we have bad days too. And you know Waylon, I know, you are having bad bouts too. It’s okay. I know you wanna work. I know you wanna be better. I know you want your normal routine again. But, maybe, this is gonna somehow work out for both of us. I mean, what we had as normal, maybe this is the transitional, and we will get some things back. Maybe, our normal will be better. Or, even if some things suck, you know, we will find ways to make it better. And it will work out.”

 

“I don’t wanna die yet.” Waylon spoke the truth.

 

There was a large silence that permeated and imprinting on the space. Memory would remember kindly the weight. Glad to survive that weight pressing down.

 

‘I believed and believe in everything you said and had thought things like that for a long time.” Waylon smiled and Miles had to smile back, a small comma in communication, “But.” Waylon had slowly grabbed and grasped Miles’s hand, Miles did the same, as Waylon had imitated the same movements that Miles had been doing, feeling the fleshy knuckles with their bones as though a secret covered in knots, easily uncovered with movements, curtains of strength, “But.” Waylon looked determined, “I won’t lie. This thing. The Walrider. Everything. It may be scary. But it interests me because it seems something big but also private. I wanna know the truth and the many truths this has. Even if we don’t know everything. The main details will suffice. It just hurts me to know how Murkoff and maybe other companies affiliated have been doing all of this. Also, I want to know what Wernicke wanted. You mentioned before he talked about ‘gateway’ and the interviewer talked about ‘gateway to what’ and honestly…I also want to know. So, I don’t wanna die. I hope to survive this too.” Waylon smiled so warmly that Miles thought he could be the sun if he so pleased, “I don’t want my life to just be uncovering secrets about Murkoff and Walriders and all of that. I want to uncover codes again, maybe see new digital technology. God, maybe one day, as Walrider is already considered a technology, it would be cool to see if people use Walriders as everyday technology, though Wallie is not really tech so maybe the research nanomachines that helped him can be developed for something else? I am just curious enough to wanna live a bit longer.”

 

And with that Miles embraced him. Just did. On account of the fact embracing him, showing him love, at that moment, felt like the right and best thing to do. Because Waylon had spoken as a visionary and someone who wanted to know something — knowledge and emotions multidirectional, isn’t that he had felt the world had always lacked? — and what he said made sense. It made sense to Miles because all this time he had been too obsessed with Murkoff. Yes. It is true that uncovering the truth of Murkoff was bloody important. That had always been important. Yet. Well, Miles had to sigh. Miles never made a show of actual show of sincerity on anything else did he? That was what he was thinking. Due to his workloads and insincerities he also missed out on the chance of a good relationship with Yesfir. Murkoff had nothing to do with that he just didn’t know how to say things anymore that mattered in that personal way. Miles didn’t know what had happened to him; he had preferred Yesfir never mention the idea of being “official” or well “together” — ironically, he dreamt of their marriage more than once. Of having a child with her for the time being. Or, more than one. And doing what they did in their own respective ways. Yesfir didn’t dream that at all. Maybe, glimpses here and there. But she wasn’t staying with him. Though they dated he would easily see her with another man. As Yesfir said with no injury: “Miles, I am not gonna wait statically. You don’t say anything because you want me to say it. It makes you feel that you are entitled to it. But, I am willing, and my speech that is not spoken should be enough for you.”

 

And Miles knew she was right. Besides, it was with Yesfir first that he had this problem. After all he had had serious relationships. And they lasted long. Even before he met Yesfir he was half-dating that so-called ex-editor in chief pal. But, even before that he dated someone for five years until she cheated and said she loved his onetime friend better. With Melanie, as her name was, he had thought of settling down and marrying. But she did marry his friend. And after a while they were cordial enough. They, “they” meaning him and Yesfir, ironically went to Melanie’s first anniversary. Of course, some spiteful words were spoken; with him and Melanie actually throwing some glasses at each other — away from public at least — then breaking down crying a bit. Melanie thanked him for helping her realise who she was and wanted to be with. Miles angrily said he was not some femme fatale or maiden tool for her heroic highness to realise herself. But then he accepted her thanks. Saying, he realised he is strong enough to even give the right things to the wrong person. And strong enough not to really care about the wrong person anymore to that extent. Though she looked sad at this she nodded. And then she apologised sincerely. And he accepted. And they shook hands. And he said Yesfir was much better than her even in bed. Melanie shrugged and groaned. But then she said, she deserved that one. And hoped always the best for him.

 

That was that.

 

Yesfir looked at him quietly later on and laughed: “Did you resolve things with Melanie?”

 

“I guess, a type of it.” Miles looked down on his hand, Yesfir was driving home, “I mean I did forgive her. And she thanked me and said sorry. We threw our last glassware at each other. And then we laughed and cried a bit. It will still take time. We are not machines. We do not seek a performance in efficiency. We seek efficiency in all our performances: the actions, the procrastinations and also the crying and the catharsis. All the drills, all the nails that speak minimalist but also go beyond.”

 

“Waxing sadness philosophy. I liked it though.” Yesfir said so in her calm and happy way; a way she could be energetic frothy and also totally not losing it. Drunk without drinking he called it.

 

And he thought he got over it and he did actually. But…he always felt maybe this time he wouldn’t think so much into it. It was a wrong choice as he didn’t think at all into it. And one day he knew sitting in the coffeeshop with Yesfir that whatever they had was over. She looked away from him. Looked at him. And her eyes were somewhat teary. And he knew. Because he has gotten teary as well and he just knew that she was telling him things he didn’t want to hear without speaking to him. Magnified in the air, like “waited for you,” “can’t wait anymore,” “this has to stop,” and “sorry.”

 

Finally, like any person just wanting to hear it once, he went, “Yesfir, on Saturday, do you wanna —“

 

“No. Miles.” She said firmly, bluntly, each syllable a colossal force of decisiveness.

 

And Miles nodded meekly.

 

They were silent for 12 minutes or so and then she got up, got her bag, “Call me if you are writing that journalistic piece about whale songs I need to be involved in that you know.” She smiled, not sadly, warmly and in a regular way just not that way anymore. And Miles nodded.

 

He went home and he cried.

 

Now, in retrospect, he realised, perhaps he had not been ready for a relationship? — Maybe, Yesfir was a great person. But, she came at a bad time in his life. And external factors can influence relationships. Miles knew he could date and marry Yesfir even if he tried to now. Unless, well, she got someone better and more reliable than him.  Or, well, if she was still interested. And even if she was — perhaps, he wouldn’t. After all, he was feeling so deeply for Waylon. The bliss was so much it hurt at times. But usually it made him feel good without short-circuiting. Hormonal overload love may initially lead to great sex. But it lacked continuous momentum.

 

He was at an age where he needed more.

 

And he was kinda jealous of Lisa Park. Or Lisa Callaghan as she was now going back being unmarried. Or, maybe this time she won’t change her name again.

 

Thinking of Waylon getting in him…was kinda turning him on. Even if he was shy would Waylon look both shy and naughty at the same time? Or, maybe him in him? Would both positions make him close his eyes or would he shy or unashamedly put in into eye contact. Dammit, Miles realised he might just grab Waylon in front of him and kiss him and give him a blow job. Yeah, he was embracing him. But at that moment he needed and wanted more. Looking intently, he gazed at this beautiful ma called Waylon Park. Brushed his face with his. Waylon didn’t pull away or seem perturbed so he touched his lips softly with his cheek, his eyes (in response Waylon closed them a bit) and then slowly brushed his lips against his lips. Then he felt it.

 

Waylon slowly caught Miles’s lips in soft snag of teeth. The reflex made Miles open his mouth a bit and Waylon’s tongue went in and Miles manoeuvred his instantly into Waylon’s. The kiss felt soft breaths from throats and the oxygen melted in the tongue too like vaporous feasts sustaining each other. And soon after four minutes the kiss was over for now. Each latched off the tongue as easily as possible. Smiling Waylon caressed Miles’s hair, “What were you thinking about? Or, _who_ were you thinking about?”

 

“Many things. Many _people_. Also, Lisa Callaghan you know your ex-wife.”

 

“Huh.” Waylon almost laughed, “What for?”  Then Waylon laughed, “Not saying you can’t…but…”

 

“Well, she had you for a long time so I am kinda jealous.” Miles pouted. “Lucky woman.”

 

“Yeah, I guess.” Waylon blushed. Rubbing his head, “Well,” he chuckled, “I thought about Yesfir getting to be with you. Got me jealous too. Also, any other dude you dated and liked. I mean I hope I can compare to those men.”

 

“Waylon you aren’t a dude. Dude.”

 

Both of them burst out laughing: “But you are really incomparable in many ways. Waylon.” A soft kiss.

 

“Yeah, most people are.” Another soft kiss. “But, I mean, I guess I am nervous.”

 

“That’s natural. So am I.” Miles teasingly pushed Waylon, “If you weren’t I would hate you, you cocky bastard.”

 

Waylon teasingly pushed back, harder, Miles realised that Waylon had some fine reserve of strength, “Oh yeah. Right.” Waylon chuckled a bit.

 

“Uhmm, “ Waylon started again, “Miles, about Eddie…” Waylon sighed, “I would be lying if I said…” Waylon cautiously swallowed, as if sampling his answer, “That I am not impressed and affected by how he is behaving with me.” Waylon looked away, “I mean it does seem like a lot.”

 

“Do we have to talk about this now?” Miles sounded a bit annoyed but then sighed before Waylon could open his mouth to apologise, “Well, to be honest, maybe I would have procrastinated on the Eddie issue so it’s good you brought it up.” Miles brushed his own hair strands away from his ear, then he sighed and actually while slipping away his knots he had looked away. Waylon now looked a bit annoyed and Miles looked apologetically, “I mean he did go down on me and I kinda like him.” Waylon sighed and gave a soft smile. The annoyance was normal. And it didn’t seem like a large dilemma just somewhat strange. They seemed to be considering Eddie’s feelings. It would be rude and callous not to.

 

“Aside that.” Waylon began, clearing his throat and smiling, taking a small smile and nod from Miles as a ‘we can settle this later’ sort of vibe, “Shouldn’t we talk to Wallie? I mean try and keep at it? Do you feel anything?”

 

“Sometimes from Wallie I feel like something is racing and completely gonna lose the edge and I can feel my head spin a bit…It’s like toxic fear of an unknown.” Miles realised as he spoke it.

 

“An unknown fearing an unknown.” Waylon spoke. Outside, the chirping of insects and birds welcomed an evening.

 

“What is _it_ though?”

 

Miles and Waylon looked at each other.

 

* * *

 

 

 

“What you are talking about?” Eddie blinked, “sounds like a folklore I heard long ago, or urban lore, it’s called Slendy man or something like Slender…I mean some of the descriptions match… Fuck man that sort of things is a woodland shit!”

 

“If it’s urban why is it woodland?”   Wallie sceptically asked. Holding his clawed hands on his hips.

 

“Well, Slender likes staying from decrepit places like old city scapes and old farms and woods.” Eddie blinked again, rubbed his forehead, “Walrider, are you fucking serious that you saw some shit like that?!”

 

“I have no reason to lie to you do I?” Wallie sounded annoyed.

 

Eddie shivered. With him the Walrider did as well. “Why did you tell me?” Eddie asked cautiously, “Like you told me first, Why?”

 

“I didn’t wanna bother Waylon and Miles they looked peaceful together. And I didn’t wanna trouble anyone I knew too well. Though my attachment to Miles makes that difficult at times.”

 

“Oh.” Eddie almost “hmphed” at hearing Waylon and Miles being together in peace, then he got up, “Wallie, we have to say this to everyone. This means we are in danger and we must alert the others.”

 

“Well, not quite. I know this sounds strange but I feel the danger from him is less at the moment. I feel something else…” Walle confided sotly, “I feel something that makes me realise another danger is close by. Like well, that I must be prepared for. Like something pretty close by. I am feeling static. A static similar to my own. It was a bit of a hum before so I could not always understand it. Now I feel it is becoming a discerning sort of noise for me. White noise but like _molten_ white noise.” Wallie actually fluctuated for a minute, “It’s hard to explain. But it’s _there_.”

 

“I don’t know what that is but…but it’s sounds super dangerous.” Eddie felt his hands shake. Even he didn’t need the Walrider’s senses. Something in him also sniffed a kind of danger.

 

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?” Miles came in with Waylon.

 

“Wallie, what are you saying? Is something wrong?” Waylon asked.

 

Wallie took a deep breath.

 

And started.

 

* * *

 

Darian looked at the sort of house type lodge. A safehouse. Observing Miles and Waylon kiss made him smile and sneer then sigh. It was quite attractive to him. Though he wanted to test out things. Though Waylon and Miles may be less prepared for this The Twins and Eddie had some experience. Though, that is what got him so hyped. Darian licked his lips. The fact that he will hunt those hunters. With a sick sense of humour he brought machetes and even something like a buzzsaw. Was wondering if Eddie would recognise that it was the same one he had tried to use on Waylon and used on so many patients. Darian had cut it off from the cutting board and brought it out tied to a sturdy steel beam. Chuckling he caressed Habrok’s face.

 

“Soon. Pretty. Soon.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, get ready for the conclusion of "Enigma Perception" portion of SE :D — perhaps only two chapters left :D


	25. Spirals + Ultimatums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, guys, here is an update :) Well, I have put in information from both the comics online so SPOILERS for that. Like it has Spoilers for characters like Trager, Chris Walker and Blaire and I put characters from the comic here so watch out :)

 

**Spirals + Ultimatums**

 

 

“It’s just I never asked.”

“Wise decision.”

“I am not a simpleton. I also learned from my subordinates and the inmates. Being belligerent and asking would have gotten me nicely in a shit load of trouble if not instant death.”

“Well, what makes you think I am a safe person to talk about this with?”

Jeremy Blaire looked hard at Richard Trager.

Then he punched his face: “Trager! You son of a bitch!”

“C’mon, Jeremy,” laughing a bit, caressing his face, wiping the spit and spitting out some loose saliva, “Surely, you can hit harder than that?” Then getting to a more calm state, “You know, I ain’t really your buddy anymore. I only want to find David. And Annapurna gonna get his. Maybe, even Billy. But, definitely David. David and I — he has to talk responsibility you know…”

Jeremy rubbed his knuckles and looked at Trager, “I don’t think you are speaking to me when you say that.”

“No, maybe not.”

“You and your obsession with Annapurna.” Jeremy had thought on it. And he knew the truth a bit. Though the truth didn’t reveal much. It was kind of sad. Though he didn’t understand how and why.

That Rick Trager may have _feelings_ for David Annapurna. May _always_ have had _them_. The feelings were supposed to be excised by David being sent to the engine. Though the engine had augmented the feelings even before Rick was subjected to it. Perhaps, as David was never the typical Variant it made things worse for Trager. Some assumptions, whatever they were Jeremy didn’t know, were given evidence by the subjection of both of them to the engine.

Yet, Jeremy was genuinely unhappy with this predicament. Rick was someone he could partially count on. Or, fully. Well, the engine changed probability dynamics but surely now shouldn’t they be trying to help one another?

“I mean, Trager, Rick…” Jeremy started slowly, “Are you really gonna spy on me?” Jeremy had a hard time accepting it, “I mean, I know you are not completely focused on it but investigating me? Darian is already doing so. Why do you need to get involved? Or, even put up with this shit willingly?”

“I need something to do. They offered an option. Albeit a lax one. I am a convalescing bitch myself. You, look at you. Why the fuck wouldn’t I?” Trager now looked completely furious and it jarred Jeremy, “You, getting better. Almost as good looking as that Miles fellow. And me, fucked up in this position. With back hurting. Almost cut in half. Hurting like a bitch. You also didn’t have to suck engine cock. Never lick its inky pussy-juice. I don’t know how you expect me to feel sorry for you.” Trager sternly looked at Jeremy’s now irate face, “Only David will get me. Like me he has a bad hand of cards.”

“Seriously.” Jeremy knew Rick wasn’t all wrong, but that hurt, “C’mon. We are friends. Don’t sell me out just yet!”

“Fine. I won’t.” Trager blinked, smiled, “Not much you got to trade with.” Rick then looked sad, “You know if you ask them. Ask Darian bitch as an escort. They may allow you. Though, I mean. Darian as an escort is kinda dangerous. Unless, you just go to café or something. I don’t think he will cause trouble.” Rick slowly said it, his sadness, “You’ll get to go somewhere. Look at me. I don’t think I can walk around anywhere aside a Halloween parade.” Then all of a sudden he banged his own wheelchair arm and it scared Jeremy, “ _Friends_ …we were never _really_ friends you know that Jeremy. You were there when they sold me out or rather _she_ did. You took pleasure in it too. Isn’t payback a real bitch?”

“Rick, you bought the engine on yourself. Banging Michelle and your personal assistant Denise wasn’t enough.” Jeremy now had a hard smug on his face, “You also tried to be a date rapist by trying to get that wolf down. I am happy at what you got. You are as that dude said, hoboshit, and you definitely shouldn’t have messed with those bitches too. It was a liability. You were just jealous of them you misogynistic son of a humping bitch. You were jealous of Denise and Michelle. Something tells me you are also jealous of David Annapurna.”

Suddenly, it was clear. Rick was jealous of David as he had been with those women. Rick was always a smartass. Rick loved hearing himself speak. Showing he was knowledgeable. Yet, he couldn’t charm his way or date rape his way to people like David Annapurna. At that time, Rick wasn’t aware that he did not impregnate anyone. The fucker was just happy in his delusional thinking that he “beat” those intelligent women through pregnancy. Jeremy remembered Denise. She wasn’t some hot, dumb broad. She knew exactly how to file, filter, assort and assemble piles of research notes in such execute order that once a scientist had said it was like seeing a person performing a medical procedure. Rick was genuinely jealous of those women. Then he got jealous and envious of David Annapurna.

Yet, one question remained.

Was Rick scared of her?

Didn’t Rick want to even talk to her?

“So you are not holding her anymore responsible are you?”

“Not really. I wouldn’t mind having a rematch but… I wanna stay far away from her as possible. She had the right to be pissed at me and I did attack Michelle and Denise. I was a loser then. I am more enlightened now.”

“I don’t know where she is….” Jeremy suddenly sounded worried, “All this worry and all this mess I have thought if she gone to solve things. After all she is from mitigation. I am sure after the shit showdown that happened in Mount Massive they called her and her partner. However, I have heard something of a rumour that she is well you know…not in active duty at the moment. I am not sure about the details. If she does pay us a visit I wonder what will happen.”

“Do you think she will let her work this case? I mean we can be deadly…though she handled around the same brute force. You know. I found out that —“

“She got Walker. Yeah.”  Jeremy nodded. “That’s how I was ‘introduced’ to her or rather did my own fieldwork.” Then with a pause, “I wonder if anything did happen to her.”

“I doubt it. She is a tough one.”

“You know we thought of ourselves pretty much the same way. Look what happened.”

Jeremy almost growled.

Rick sighed.

For a moment it seemed he had suddenly fallen asleep. Jeremy knew then that he was a really messed up guy. Darian had been open enough to say that “naturally” or without much treatment, he wouldn’t walk again. The elevator crushed his back and he didn’t have time to be sent immediately off for medical assistance. The Variant physiology was somewhat tricky. Some doctors thought he was either dead or in some shock or coma. A diagnosis was hard to make. The skin was so taut and scarred that it did hide that some places Rick _was_ without flesh. Then it was considered as shock and to wait. Rick hardly came back alive. The corporation decided that trying to keep him alive as much as possible was feasible. After all, though Rick had caused a scandal before he did operate on some of the executives and employees around at Mount Massive. Might have some credible information. Yet, Jeremy knew that Rick was also been given a batch of experimental drugs and that it was not necessarily an optimistic situation. If the drugs failed the prognosis may carry in failure. Meaning they were expendable as fuck. Aside being research rats and ratting out what they knew, what possible purpose could they serve? Granted they probably would find a way to get Rick back on his feet but skin? Nope. That would be too much charity for a guy who was causing a scandal and really had nothing left to offer to Murkoff. Unless, he did have any incentive and skill to be otherwise declared. Rick Trager was an embarrassment to Murkoff. An abomination in Mount Massive. A sadomasochist who could just do stupid experiments on people for no reasons for Murkoff’s benefit would be an extreme liability. The other factors played against him. The dude was a loser dud who chased pussy too much and that got him in the Morphogenic engine in the first place.  Yet, with Annapurna…yeah it was somewhat sexual. Jeremy could see this fuck bating to David Annapurna. Rick was changed if he acceded that he fucked around with the wrong woman before and that he did deserve what happened to him. It was not only Billy who had also evidenced it but so did Michelle.

Maybe, he did have a better bargain. Making him sing was Darian. And he was playing his cards right enough.

Jeremy had Darian. They seemed to have a relationship enough.

Whatever it was that they had it may keep him safe for some time. Though there was no guarantee. There was a detection of some fondness from both sides.

Yet, he was the psychopathic kind wasn’t he? Adding to that his bouts of sociopathic refrain even through affection (something intense and narcissistically serving) through the cold dregs of not even noting he was in existence…until his seamen needed some form of body to be released by. This was dangerous, shaky ground he treaded and occasionally skipped on. It was noted that after that affair of the upper floor shag (as Jeremy named it) that Darian stopped that altogether. As in both shagging and visiting. Jeremy assuaged himself knowing that Darian may be busy but he also knew that Darian wasn’t gonna be bitching around for anyone. There was the fact that they had some bullshit deep conversation. For people like them that was not always a good sign. It mean denial afterwards and also a sense of feeling like we had our catharsis and we better send each other off like some Titanic bon voyage. However, there is a chance people like them could come around for that. After all what else is there left to do for entertainment? Darian liked fighting and fucking. Occasionally, or perhaps frequently, he had other hobbies that Jeremy had not asked, Darian had not offered and so he knew fuck about. Darian was young. In his mid to early twenties if he remembered correctly. There was signs he wasn’t a school-body as in he did not go to a conventional school. Or, even if he did the experience was always a change in schools probably and could be even a short lived experience. Darian didn’t seem like he could pretend that well as the bounty of fakers did in the crowd. Darian did seem to enjoy going outside and well socialising to an extent. Though he was a bit curious at how those went as Darian was dangerous.

Seeing Rick doze off made Jeremy sleepy too.

Quietly, he shivered, and slept.

After two hours, he woke up, he was in his own room. Not Rick’s. Next to him was Darian. All naked. Seemed to have undressed him too. There was no sign of them having sex. Jeremy was happy and a bit excited seeing him. That he embraced the younger man. Darian smelled a bit like dirt, usually he smelled some strawberry mixed with gel cologne with accents of ash, as a burn. Here, there seem burning ash and some dirt like soil. Wondered where he went, Jeremy seemed curled next to him in a comfortable, companionable lock. Questions could be always interspersed later.

Jeremy found him better company than Rick.

A kiss on the cheek and Jeremy smelled hair and neck happily before he slept again.

* * *

 

Pauline Glick heard the soft sound, a bit of howl, as she nuzzled into her pillow. It was around 7am. It was a bit dark out. Autumnal hours. It was her work phone. She was happy to know they counted on her still. Or, at least partially. Her fate was still in the crosshairs as one would say. No matter. She wasn’t solely Murkoff’s bitch. If Paul Marion could take a stupid leap there was no reason why she couldn’t either. Aside the so-called ethics of Marion’s bitching leap. Sabotaging Murkoff was what he and Waylon Park had tried to do best. Hell, even that Miles Upshur. A flash of Chris “Strongfat” Walker came in. She blinked. Seeing him in action as the behemoth he had become made her chuckle. The modus operandi was the same. All that shitload of money gone to him to get “treated” to preserve that infantile obsession of ripping heads and being a standard dumbfuck as she liked  to call it.

Pauline got up. She was still at Murkoff’s Rehabilitation Centre. Looking at the message as it read:

“ _Pauline. Gonna take care of Marion soon. You need to read on files Park, Upshur but also Rojas, Pierce, Amis and Annapurna. You are then start your reconnaissance and tracking of Amis and Rojas. They are in Leadville but it is possible they are headed out. As you are still convalescing it is best to do surveillance and acquire any additional information on their search patterns. They seem to want to investigate Lucid Dreamers, particularly David Annapurna. Do not engage is possible. It is imperative we know as much as what they may uncover aside their primary objective. Mission engagements soon to be disclosed.”_

Pauline growled lowly.

This was a bad case. Not of mitigation. Rather it was dicey, even low grade fieldwork to an extent. True Rojas and that journalist Amis could be threats but canvassing them like this was not her main expertise. It was a hunt but toned down. It would be her usual line of work if she was meant to just blackmail them or just killed them. Also, like this she was in the crosshairs too. Meaning they were deciding this was a form of test. Murkoff could easily bleed her after the shitfest Marion pulled. Though she was valuable and have a good work performance she was also a dying limb explaining Murkoff’s recent hard-hitting failures. She heard that Jeremy Blaire was being a fuck boy for that weird kid Darian Stockblitz Leitner. Though she hadn’t worked with him officially she had seen his Walrider rip apart some people. Darian came to help when things got more than regular ugly. Which in her accounts were minimal. Darian’s Walrider was a form of glitch. That piece called Habrok or Slicestorm was a cranky piece of artillery like a dog in a manger or a cat put to bath. It was true that there was that Lilith Walrider and maybe some others but they needed more. Aside from that she heard that Trager was barely alive. She snickered and then bellowed out a sick laugher — he would be needing skin now; yet he wondered if he sported a wig after she shredded his hair. Fucker deserved all of that.

The one name that she wasn’t really familiar with was Pierce. Should she be?

Reading over the files she saw “Pierce” as a woman from around the 60’s — an old bat perhaps?

She decided to sit with her files, surreptitiously, but cosily at their posh cafeteria. She needed breakfast and she need to feel her hands on with the desk work. Not to mention she had physio afterwards. Her busted up arm should soak all those in before she knew the exact timing of her going out to the mission.

“It is not that wise to exhibit those in public you know but then again I guess you are hungry.”

Pauline almost sneered and glared at the same time. Refrained only to a casual smile. She looked up at Danielle Austen. She had the pleasure of meeting her before. They had worked with each other seeing that Helen Granat was pretty much both their bosses. Danielle had kissed her once. She hadn’t completely enjoyed it but would not say she was loath of it. There was a bit of sexual tension between them. She and Helen had a bit of a competitiveness even though Helen was her boss. They used Danielle as a bit of a go between. Danielle didn’t seem to mind much. She seemed happy being used and even using others as long as she was able to be playful and seductive and sadistic. Pauline had been slapped by Danielle once too. She grabbed her wrist later and twisted it only to have Danielle hit her knee and they both have a fist fight. Which was resolved in laughing at each other and then going to eat dinner. They had some nice fish and chips with great sauce.

“Well, are you here to follow me and be by my side or just well you know? Check up on me?”

“I don’t think I can follow you too much Pauline I have my own paperwork and experiments to conduct. You will meet up with Darian at times. You also need to contact Sasha Ouellette if you remember her? One of Dr Wernicke’s secretaries? You must read up on Genevieve Amis a lot. I think some of her recent articles would be good to skim over. There isn’t much mention of Murkoff. But you will know what to do.”

“Have they gone to Upshur’s apartment yet?”

Danielle here smiled: “We were hoping to leave that delicate task for you?” With a pause, “There was a woman there recently. We wanted to send two of our agents, one of them also worked Mitigation, I think you know Roxie Harrell,” Pauline crinkled a nose a bit, she knew Harrell and it seems that Roxie may have had a sort of promotion, a bit like Waylon Park did after Michelle had to leave, Park had to take her place, “And one of our advanced security people, Dwight Parrish. When they saw the woman Granat and other members told them to not to dispose of her. It is true you should research on her as well if possible. Her name is Yesfir Nova Wayra. She is supposedly a teacher in training, a poet and a literary researcher. Though, apparently, she also has a Masters in Biochemistry. I do not think she has any knowledge about Walriders or anything. Though some scrutiny seems to be advisable.”

“Roxie is still a bit off isn’t she?” Pauline half-snorted, “She lacks some finesse.”

“Well, that is why we sent Dwight Parrish. People say he is as good as Darian. Though, he is without a Walrider.”

“Yeah, he is a bit of a ‘true believer’ that Blaire once commented. Too dedicated to Murkoff.” Pauline looked bored, “Are you sure you want such a combination to ensure Murkoff’s secrets?”

“Well, it seems better than you and Marion.” Pauline felt the jab as Danielle smiled and said that, “You know you Pauls were really doing good. At least Roxie and Dwight ain’t sentimental as that Marion loser. Roxie is out to please and so is Dwight. We could use a lack of sobriety in this one. Seeing how all of yours, with its sharp sombreness, got you shot and pretty much useless.”  

It was enough.

Pauline got up and slashed her butter knife on Danielle’s arms surprising her and making her fall down. “Watch it Austen.” Pauline fumed as she saw the younger woman clutching her arm, “If you piss me off too much I will turn you down for things that you like.”

People in the cafeteria were watching. Some weren’t. They were either used to outbursts like this or too lost in their own worlds. Corporate dirty work and the wounds gotten from them could do that to you. However, some of the female and male wards, nurses and even waiters were looking intently. The staff could intervene. Fucking wage slaves happy to slap on the higher ups if they get the chance, bust their nuts and tits if need be, Pauline maliciously smiled to herself. Then smiled to the staff who look uncertain now. She could read their body language as one easily read alphabet rubrics. She could see the tension of them. They had been taught with some adrenalin, anticipation even nervousness or cockiness. Her smile fucked that up. She was as deadly as Walker, more sadistic than Trager and could outfox Jeremy Blaire if she wanted to. _Hmmm, should I take his invitation for a drink? I am now in the same arena as him_. Might be useful to know cock specs of that Darian Stockblitz Leitner, Pauline threw her head back. Then she laughed. A wolfish laugh that made even some of those lost in thought attendees at the cafeteria look up. A number of them looked at her as though her sanity was questionable, others deemed her disturbingly violent and the rest of the that small sample, (broken out of the reverie so akin thematically to those static patients than they will ever know at Mount Massive then they will ever know), that finally did look up they felt a sudden jolt. In her laugh was a manic obsessive excitement that triggered in them memories. Some fond. Some a trigger that they started shaking like withdrawal or a form of fear that two had to be taken out of the room.

All this time Danielle facial expressions were changing — first from shock, then neutral, to surprise to sudden neutrality again. Now, it was a widening grin. As though a holiday had arrived earlier than the internal clock could be given credit for. Or, like a child she had known now school was out and she could do what she wanted in her room. Play games. Marry her dolls. Decapitate them and make them a mass of plastic Frankenstein flesh. Go outside and push kids in the snow to her heart’s content. Though if she was older, she looked in elation at the prospect of prolonged masturbation. Of the ability to coax and cloy, tease and torment, fist and finger her clitoris and her sweet inside. Those muscles that could the bulk of fingers, vibrators and penises and shape them too, put little sweet ticks on them. Making those shafts beg and plead ejaculations and orgasms like there was no snow like the one the two organs fused could make. Make other cunts quiver as those a bow and a small deft arrow knew the bullseye to ever competition. Make vaginas have orgies within themselves and plummet and rise like a hawk in full swing of kill. That grin that was both sexual, predatory and compiled with an earnestness both genuine and perverse.

“It’s nice to see you have not lost your edge.” Danielle licked her lips, “It is great to see you be the animal you are Pauline Glick.”

“What makes you…” Pauline looked enraged — the staff looked scared— she approached the fallen Danielle and stepped on her left hand. Hard if not unforgivingly. Danielle cringed but her wide grin only wavered a bit, “Think.” Pauline pressed down harder once for emphasis — one of staff members, a young man she knew was helping take care of her screamed out: “Miss Glick! Please stop!” — “That I could be so easily tamed. By bruises?” And this time Danielle was saying something, interrupting, that this was not the point so Pauline stepped harder again to shut her up. Even if the step didn’t deter her physically Danielle could see the rage and understand that it was best to let this woman finish. “By what short-sided, impulsive logic would you think that I can tamed by anything as this!” Pauline stopped pressing on Danielle’s left hand but quickly, in a flash, kicked her left leg with force. This made Danielle yelp a bit. And she saw Pauline stomp on the floor, putting her foot down literally and figuratively for all it was worth, and looking with a wide, deliciously sinister smile of her own, “I am a wolf. I am a predator. I mitigate things out of existence. I will not be deterred by an arm. I will pull out the limbs of anyone who gets in my way!” Some staff members were screaming, imploring, for her to stop with the display. Yet, no one seemed to be bringing sedatives. They were either too fascinated or afraid or curious to see what would happen. “Rather.” She made her voice heavier, like an inferno reaching a crescendo, “This makes me want to go and hunt again. No predator can only be happy licking their wounds! I will tear up anything that I feel will endanger my hunger! My territory! And in the most human way of saying: my mission! That is to expel those that can hurt a cause such as the ones Murkoff churns out every once and a while.” Now her body has stopped its rush. Her shoulders relaxed. She breathed in deep. “I am a hunter through and through Austen.” She held out her hand, “Don’t forget that.”

She helped up Danielle. Though her nails dug in deep into the other woman’s wrist to which Danielle gave a moan of pain and passion. One of the nails even dug into her palm. She was hoisted up by her left hand. It was something quite audacious. Though Danielle in term sank her nails into Pauline’s unwounded arm too and jabbed with her shoulder her wounded one getting a groan from the other. Despite her being seemingly passive Danielle was far from it. She subordinated when she subordinated with a will that sought out mischievous forms of play and sex. She did not mind top if it meant a further action of a scene in progress. And she was no pushover. There is a difference between submission and a pushover. Pushovers could be dominators too. Reading those subtle cues and lines were an empowering sense of knowledge but Danielle knew only a few would look at the surface and beyond it for what it was. She was one of the few in her own right.

“I supposed…” Danielle started, in a murmur, for the exhibitionist rage and tussle of them still heightened the ambience of the convalescent cafeteria. She enjoyed that people were on edge because of them; the sense of power they had on them, their ability to craft a spectacle with meaning. Housewives and frustrated men of the stereotype (though most people in general) live for this kind of drama. A systemised means of causing chaos into the everyday. One who seeks excitement feeling urban life is too mundane. Danielle dug in a bit deeper with her shoulder into Pauline’s arm getting a surprised hiss from the other. She heard in the air some sighs from concerned bystanders. It titillated her. Pauline had tried to shake away her free hand from the digging nails but Danielle used a motion of resistance as her motion of pulling closer and stabbing her shoulder in still and feeling Pauline ready to bit her neck as the huntress she was. Vampyric and all. “That the loss of Marion…” Danielle was getting stimulated in her erogenous places, her mind was throbbing blood-red and white lens, Pauline could taste something of an aura of her sweat. She relaxed a bit then wrenched her hand free of Austen only to clutch on the other’s shoulder like a mauling wolf-bite. Danielle eyes hooded, “Would make you displeased. Despite his weak-willed and weak-spine character I assumed there was some camaraderie between you two. I suspected a pussy-cock like him would want some of yours. Though…” she smiled with her hooded eyes and Pauline saw in her open mouth a glistening of canines — she also saw in the corner some staff members and bystanders, mostly male though the females were blinking rapidly, swallow, _Hot already wage slaves?_ — “I could be wrong. However, I am not so wrong about this I truly believe I am not.”

Well, those girls and boys see her mouth and know she can be a hellcat, though, boys, especially to you, don’t underestimate this bitch Danielle Austen. She will ride your cock and make protein shakes out of your seamen while you pant and puff as she blows your cock-house down, Pauline smiled evilly and grabbed the back of the neck of the fierce little Austen and tilted it a bit closer, a bit harshly, all to accentuate her wolfish charms and feast of grandmother’s corpse: “I admit.” She said this slowly, close enough to kiss. Then pushed Danielle off that she almost stumbled and fell again only to regain her bearings. “That Marion and I had something good. I needed his cream puff tenderness at times.” Her voice now normal and people heard. Captivated by the erotic magnetism of Pauline’s vulpine boldness and strength. “ Yes. It is sometimes nice to get along with hookers with a heart of gold like him. It is nice to see such tenderness even as a field as ours. Such good does have its perks, its merits and its charisma. Not to mention it can hold some attraction.” Then her feet grounded the floor and the spectators, few so tuned to her body language, noticed, as she empathetically howled her siren, wolfish focus: “I will hunt that motherfucking bitch down if need be and bring him to be a new Walker specimen as need be. My sole intentions are my job assignments. Mitigation can’t happen without relinquishing sentimental superficialities. Marion did a bad deed. A messy deed. I will say that his crime is more deadly and cause of more betrayal than Waylon Park. I will see to it the company knows its assets and can mitigate its liabilities as promptly as possible.”

“Good.” Danielle looks at her. The crowd realised that the denouement and catharsis was over. Glick’s assistant or caretaker came forward. Pauline tried to push him away but the younger man tended to her arm in a sling. A look of reprehension and complete distrusted were narrowed and aimed at Danielle from his part. She slightly pushed her tongue out. A raspberry. An innuendo. He didn’t appreciate either and just almost glared at the superior. “It seems you will make good progress.” Danielle approached them and the caretaker got in front almost impulsively, defensively, to which Danielle with ease pushed him and made him startled and raised Pauline’s brow as she handed her a piece of paper, “Treat this as a form of messy communique. I will help you from time to time Pauline. We should dispatch soon for _this_ part of the assignment.”

The caretaker hoarsely, with restrained politeness, admonished as much as rank would permit: “Please, miss, Miss Glick needs to eat properly and does not require this form of _over-exertion_.” The last bit was stressed after a slight pause. The poor lad seriously didn’t know how to phrase how all that happened.

Danielle’s face now was a deep, brushed blanket of cornering hostility: “Keep on making that voice and talk like that babe. I will make sure you swim with the fishes before you eat lunch today.”

Her tone and her overall essence made the young man swallow. “I…I…I am sorry, I do apologise. But…she does need rest.”

Danielle neared him, making him reach back, intimidated. Pauline watched with sombre eyes as Danielle patted the man’s head, though he was few inches taller, “Good puppy. Be attentive and cute like this to Pauline will ya.” Then slowly got to his ear, a tip of tongue flicked his right earlobe slightly and he sighed at the intrusion and the lack of boundaries, “You do a good job.” There was a soft moan on her part and the young man just trembled uncertainly, “Your little attentiveness is so sweet. Makes me wanna make you a plaything. Hmmm,” she paused, put a finger to her chin as if contemplating the possibilities, “That sounds yum.”

The man looked defeated, “I…I should uhmm…” he was pretty speechless.

By this time, Pauline looked at the small scrap of paper, the sides rugged as if ripped randomly, without precision of keeping some of the sides intact, the edges gave her still some tactile sense of comfort with their irregularity: “ _Investigate Pierce first. Question Judy Rojas. We have her in interrogation. Darian may make a move. After his moves. Please talk to him later. We leave at around 15:00 hours for the interrogation_.”

Pauline smiled as she looked at the yellow notepad paper. Crinkling it within her index finger and thumb. Sure, Murkoff may not be done with her yet. Something told her this impromptu show in the cafeteria would come in handy too.

She looked at the young man and Danielle. He seemed scared to move and Danielle was enjoying the show. “You,” she motioned to him and he immediately looked like a deer in headlights who was possibly hearing the car screech to a stop, a save, “Get me my cigarette and get me a candle.” The young man rushed to get these items. Danielle and she gave appraisingly nods. Both hunters of different kind. Both lethal in their unique methods.

Pauline sat down to finish her breakfast only to see that a small flame was under a plate. She looked at some staff had meritoriously kept her food a bit hot as she had slipped into her bout with Austen. _Good sheep_ , she smiled as the young man brought her necessities. They also had cleared up the butter knife she had used as a weapon. “Light the candle.” He complied and she burned the note and he looked alarmed as the paper hissed and shot out some sparks before she put it on a half-plate and, in the presence of the distressed young man, she opened her Benson and Hedges Gold, took a slender stick out, forked out most of the flames of the paper and used the embers to light her cigarette. She gave a satisfying inhale and exhaled out with a “hmm” as one of the waiters cleared away the heat stove so she could eat her meal. Her smoke filled the air around the two. The young man looked confused. A bit defeated.

“Hey.”

“Yes, Miss Glick?”

“What’s your name again?”

“Shay Condor.”

“Yeah, Shay, draw the bath in my room. I need to take a piss-load off.” Pauline then blew smoke in his face and he coughed; he looked at her. Didn’t move as fast as she thought he would and just stared for a moment before leaving.

Pauline broke the cigarette reveries by eating breakfast with her sly smile.  

* * *

 

Jeremy woke up to see that Darian was gone. There was a note next to the bedside. Jeremy scratched his head. He decided to go to the bathroom first. In the bathroom he realised he had slept through a blowjob. Probably more tired than he thought.

After pissing out what felt like a litre worth he cleaned his dick and got into the shower. The waves of the clear water, foamy, hugged his contours and in that moment he felt he looked pretty good. Like some nude in a porn magazine. Or, maybe a painter’s subject. Chuckled at self-appreciation, borderline narcissism maybe.

With a towel around his waist he realised the lights were too dim and he put on the bedside lamp. He unhooked his towel and started running it through his hair. Didn’t want to stain the note. Hopefully, it wasn’t dire news. A sudden tug hit his guts. It wasn’t anything pertaining _him_ , right? He had slept too much of the day. Obviously, he was tired. Now he was reconsidering that all his medications sometimes did a number. And it also concerned him. Darian had sex with him. Probably, as a vitality check. Should he be? Wouldn’t such radical, experimental drugs have any effect on others? Sure, it is not a infectious thing but…side effects of his body on the drugs? Sure, the bloodwork and medical know-how were in check. Still, at intervals it had an unsettling feeling.

Jeremy dropped the towel and was almost going to drop the note.

It had a picture: WAYLON

…and the scribbled words made his stomach twist with his blood.

* * *

 

When the lights went out Miles knew things were up.

He heard Waylon gasp. Heard a door creak so softly — possibly, he could hear it a bit because of Wallie — and the soft shuffling of feet. But he knew those feet. It was the Twins. But there was a soft howl of wind outside. Clouds abound as autumn edged nearer. The Indian Summer had brought in the fireflies. Now, they were gone.

There was a low pitch moaning. Almost like a laugh.

Upstairs!

Soon, Miles heard and felt, due to his heightened sentences, a sickening tearing of bone.

It was Eddie who screamed. Eddie who started screaming and the Twins were closest — upstairs — they rushed towards the screams. Waylon had started trembling. Waylon was trembling like anything. The Walrider appeared: “They are here!”

“How many?!”

Miles said with urgency. He doesn’t know if he should go up just yet. Waylon would be left unprotected!

“I don’t know! There doesn’t seem to any humans outside!”

“Waylon! Run outside! Run outside!” That was all he needed to know. He rushed upstairs, not heeding Waylon’s cries that he wanted to help, “Waylon just go! We will handle this!”

Walrider looked confused. Something was hurting his head. So, when Miles called him he didn’t respond at first, “Wallie come on! We need to help the Twins and Eddie!”

By this time, Waylon had rushed outside.

His heartbeat was racing. He wanted to stay but something told him he should stay close and find a weapon. He decided he would go to the back — fuck, why did he run out he thought — he should get a blade or the shovel from the nearby shed! But he had to do it fast! Waylon ran into the bushes first and with a cry dashed out. He wasn’t sure what SWAT would come out and what awaited them.

Wallie screamed: “No! Waylon! I said no humans! But there is _something_ outside!”

But it was too late.

Waylon dodged the first attack of something looking like a scissor. It felt as though it was aiming for his shoulder. Not to rip off but to maim and pin down. In the autumn night, there was no moon out, there were no visible stars anymore, grey cloth like clouds ate at everything. The darkness seemed light and then heavier. Like some strobe device on play.

Waylon felt then a kick.

He had hid near the shed door but this thing came and kicked him. Hard. He felt the wind go out of him. He was airborne and hit a wall. Not so hard as the kick but he coughed. Then the thing looked as though it pulled a muscle on its leg or whatever appendage it had. It shook it. And came at night. Waylon dodged and ran and was able to get close to the back door of the house until…

…darkness.

Miles looked at bleeding Eddie. The buzz-saw was attached to loose plank of wood. Well, it was no longer attached.

Wallie came up and growled, “It got Waylon!”

Miles screamed back, heart in his head and throat, ringing bloody sirens: “What got Waylon?! Where is he?!”

“I wanna know where the fucker took Waylon!” Wallie growled and a black energy got a blast, “Where is he?!”

The Twins attacked.

Tim went first only…to have a familiar looking machete buried into his back.

“Brother!”

Tom retaliated and hit with such speed with another machete on his right left he felt almost his knee busted and skidded across the floor. He cough and saw his blood mix with that with Eddie’s who had his eyes half wide for shock.

“He’s not…” Miles was realising, “Alone.”

And Habrok, Slice storm, came out in a blink of an eye it slashed Wallie and Wallie broke through the wall with the room doorframe and all, taken to splinters.

“Wallie!” Miles cried out and as he turned he felt his throat caught in the now strong hands of the pale, slender yet incredibly strong young man.

“Allow me to introduce myself, Miles Upshur, I am Darian. You can call me Daryl if you want.” He squeezed harder into Miles throat, and Miles got enraged and sent his own black-grey radius of energy out, it singed Darian a bit, he huffed a bit, got his fist in tighter, and smiled, “I will have playing with you tonight. Your stupid Walrider and you will learn a thing or two about battle.”

Miles’s eyes blazed deeper as he saw the bearing canines and similar eyes in the other…

…this was on.

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, we are nearing the end of the "Enigma Perception" part of Shadow Engines. Next chapter will be the last of that. It will be short. Pretty short and when I return I hope you guys will like it. Thank You! Truly! For people who have been reading and following this story so far! I couldn't have done it without your support and love and patience! God Bless you all! :D This is basically the longest fanfiction I have ever written. 
> 
> Next chapter is the finale to this part of the story :) I hope to update as soon as possible :D


	26. leptosomatic NIGHTMARE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The Final chapter of Shadow Engines| Enigma Perception. Thanks to all of you who reviewed and followed. Thank You for all the love and support. Be tuned to the new Book of Enigma Perception. I am going to try to write it ASAP OKAY ON WITH THE FINALE!

 

**leptosomatic NIGHTMARE**

 

 

There was no way…no way…no way…

— shit, there was no

 

But as Miles dodged attacks from both the dark figure and the young man — almost leptosomatic young man — he realised what a big pile of fuck he had stepped on… literally…

At one point, the darkish-greyish figure had stabbed through his right foot — forcing him to leverage all his weight on his left — his body posture had gone way off — for a few minutes — deadly, crucial minutes — where spinning around hurt but he did deftly avoid being clobbered by the face by this swift, fast wolf on wheels. How much had he been packing? Fuck he was fast! Deathly fast! Like some fucking lawn mower on steroids! Or, a motorcycle that hammered the dirt road pushing out rock and pebbles by the teeth and grinding metal as though it was a cool sundae!

It took him a while…

 

...then Miles reluctantly realised it.

 

This greyish figure…was a fucking _Walrider_.

 

_Another_ one.

 

Not like Wallie.

 

More…reared in the art of fucking things up.

 

Miles knew this when he half-faded into the ground to stab him in his foot.

 

And where was Wallie?

 

Wallie hadn’t been fast enough to save his ass. Neither could he save his _own_ ass.

If the first blow was a shove against a wall that broke it apart — made the beams unsteady and fall down of that particular room — one can understand what would happen to Wallie, who can’t even open a fuck-damn door with his own hands! He seemed he couldn’t hold onto the other Walrider as he couldn’t hold onto to a fuckdamn door! The doorknob would be slicked off — a good side effect in battle surely — with this Walrider, any such anomaly just resulted in a small cut or a ripple. So, fuck it meant squat. This other Walrider was battle-hardened. It did not go around asylums killing the frail, sick and unprepared. No, it seemed trained. Able to reel itself in. Its reflexes were damn near perfect. It’s timing impeccable. It matched it’s breathing with its host, the young man, in sync, as if learning to keep up with its own physical limits with how the young man moved.

In short their Walrider, their Wallie, had no chance. It was like shredding through a self-replicating, purple-current cotton candy and pretty much see it swirl and see its nanomachines take the bulk of such a horrible assault. They seemed working at over capacity. Miles saw slight electrical sparks as he too was kicked from the upstairs to the downstairs. Miles made a dent, basically, a big ass dent on the downstairs hall — like he was some parody wrecking ball that had no aim or destination aside annihilation.

Miles was not a good fighter. Hell, he threw punches and kicks in club and bar brawls but he was not ready to fight someone who actually knew _how_ to _fight_ and seemed to _breathe_ and _live_ in it. Miles was getting tired. Point of exhausted. After Darian, as the young man said his name, eloquent in his chaos kicked him and punched him off the upstairs. Darian took like five seconds to dive off the upstairs himself. Spin his legs in mid-air, move upside down and brought down his arm, fist ready, onto Miles chest.

And after many days Miles actually spurted out blood. Hard. It felt almost like the bullets entering him.

And he was not ready for that sensation in anew.

Flashes kept bounded his head as Darian just slowed down once. To near his face to Miles. Smiled a cruel, soft, twisted smile. And after a minute while Miles lay paralysed with a indecision, hesitation, not knowing what the fuck to do — Darian started punching his chest in few successful hits, hard, fast, unrelenting.

Up above, Miles in this dim fury of fist, heard and saw a glimpse of Wallie throw an upstairs fridge (it seemed the adrenalin in his own nano-body had allowed him to pick something up) but it half pushed through that other Walrider’s body as he seemed to put his phase on quite expertly. Then he picked up the same fridge and threw it at Wallie. It took a different charged aura, as though its molecules was laced with the atoms of the object he had thrown — and it hit Wallie in the face! Actually hit Wallie — Did not go through him! It hit his face smarting a bruise that came out in the form of greyish liquid and Wallie’s face clenched in pain.

The pain of his and Wallie’s met in their own respective bodies and brains. They both screamed as chest and face met. Darian seemed to stop for a moment, to giggle, to tease: “Yeah, I know it hurts. But the first time can hurt for anyone you know.” Then he slapped Miles on his face, like it was a bitch-slap, “You want to own power like this without really feeling it.” His voice was dark as he punched and slapped Miles’s face again. Miles shuddered, his ears ringing, going back to Mount Massive, going back to being shot, being partially betrayed by Wernicke, going back to feel the Walrider, that time nothing but a vicious spectral, not Wallie, nor he getting acquainted with him — it seemed these three months just passed by. Three months. He rounded it up. It was close to three months. It was a short-lived peace that he felt was on a lease he had no right to. All of this, was breaking apart, faster than Mount Massive. The lead heavy misery, coated with the acerbic taste of blood, reminded him that he had real freedom here. Not that he was free before the Walrider. When he thought he was free after what happened in the asylum. He thought after Billy was gone some things would make sense…

_“I don’t think you really believed that did you? I am like you, you know, you basically tried to kill me. Now, maybe, Darian will kill you. There is nothing you can do. There was nothing I could have done either. It’s easy to blame what happened in the asylum on me. Especially, when the test tubes are gagging me. You should have asked me if I wanted to die or not.”_

_Fuck, is that really Billy!_ Miles eyes looked wide. So far away that Darian stopped slapping and punching him and look at him curiously.

Upstairs was being pulled to shreds.

The screams of Wallie getting hurt and Habrok pretty much slapping him too cut through the air clearer now as Darian had stopped his assault on him.  

Miles just looked on blankly…he was perfectly aware he had to fight…yet…this fear…being helpless and back in the asylum gripped him forcefully. Still, he tried to get out the way as Darian smiled and was easily trying to give him another punch. Miles moved away and then limped as he hit a wall. It was like the Walrider’s prowess had entered him slowly — but as Wallie got hit so did he — tapping into a wounded Walrider, without them perfected their symbiosis and separation — became a huge mistake. In this limping moment Darian cannonballed into Miles sending him flying right into the kitchen and hit the countertop with its marble weight right smack down breaking the stone. Miles felt some bones break. Of his left shoulder, the forearm also seemed to snap and he started screaming for a while (screams that would rivals own, synchronising there) as the bone went through the skin and he saw it coated with the bright red of blood.

This seemed to get into Miles some fury, though he was feeling helpless, his body convulsed with rage and panic and he moved forward and for the first time hit Darian back. Daria flew in the air and hit the sofas in the downstairs living room. He promptly got up, adjusted his own left shoulder, angry at first, then smiled: “I was wondering when you would make progress Miles Upshur!”

Wallie was feeling like he would suffocate and die. Was he able to asphyxiate? Scissor like hands held him up and he was feeling remarkably feeble. This wasn’t like the asylum, or, rather now he was one of the former inmates taking a beating.

In this short time that he was _trying_ to fight (he couldn’t call this _fighting_ ) he has been thrown around the room and bookcases, coffee tables, Knickknacks and almost anything this other Walrider could find had been hurled at him with the ceremonial electric blaze and he wasn’t sure how to hold onto anything without rage. Rage clouded his precision and this other had the ability to move faster than him — almost like teleportation — well, it seemed like he was actually teleporting in some of those moments. And anything this one touched, be it a small ashtray or artificial log from the fireplace, it seemed to translate into the same physicality as the nanomachines they were both made of and soon as it hit Wallie he felt almost human in his pain. Realising he couldn’t get inside this opponent and rip him into shreds was starting to wear down his resolve and his will to fight.

Soon, both Miles and Wallie felt for a while: they had to TRY.

For Waylon. For Eddie. The Twins. And also for themselves.

Miles dodged some of the attacks by Darian; like his Walrider using blades Darian’s hands moved like daggers and his greyish energy was fierce and was flaming hot. Miles could still feel the singe in his shirt when Darian made a move or tried to do something. The power in the air of this one man was palpable. It made flesh and ether: a union of the deadliest kind. What the Walrider project was trying to, in part, do. Though Miles’s investigative brain asked then was it merely replication they wanted in Mount Massive or a update on the project. Something told him that Darian’s Walrider was unstable, with its long wolfish like mouth, unlike Wallie’s own typical bone structured one.

_Billy!_ Miles cried inside his head, _How the fuck are you still alive?! Are you alive?...Or, are you just…a figment in my imagination?_

_“No, I am pretty much, **barely** , alive.” _Billy sounded pretty mad, an asperity in him that made Miles cringe, with the blow he got into the side of his mid-riff, making him pool blood from his mouth. Miles countered with an energy blast which did push back Darian and use his hand as shields. Miles needed to understand this — in spurts he tried to dash fast — into the smaller downstairs library — limping, and coughing off some more blood, he hid behind a bookcase. It felt too much like the asylum. He muffled his mouth for his spasmodic, heavy breathing. His eyes were literally flashing red.

_“Miles Upshur. It is nice to meet you in the waking flesh_.” Billy chuckled, _“Or, is it the waking dead for me? Or, for you? I am not sure you doing well are you dude.”_ Billy’s face appeared as like an image, an afterthought, of static, like some Rorschach blot dipped into an empty television. Miles panted. His heart was feeling like trying to jump against his ribcage as though it was devising an escape of its own. Miles vomited. His mouth tasted like adrenalin, bile, stomach juices, blood and saliva curdled into some odd fucked up concoction.

_“You know Darian has heightened senses.”_ Billy look like he was snickering, “ _That so will lead you to him. After all this time. You know nothing.”_

_Look…who’s talking…_ Miles screamed back in his head, _How…are you —_

_“I am not going to divulge trade secrets with someone who tried to kill me.”_ Billy giggled but then grew fierce, _“Shouldn’t you be worried about your own life Miles Upshur? I am thinking Darian might most necessarily kill you and Wallie, that’s what you are calling him right? I used to call him ghost. Because to me he was a ghost. But, a hint, that other Walrider, Habrok, he and Wallie are creating like a frequency that I can overtake. I am sure Darian knows this a bit…he hasn’t told anyone…and —“_

Suddenly, Miles heard a hand punch through the bookcase. Miles’ felt the protruding bone of his forearm being grabbed. Miles screamed as he was being pulled by his wounded bone out from the bookshelves and flung and kicked out near the door of the library. “My bad.” Darian laughed, “I thought I got the spine of that volume.”

Miles panted. Coughed. His vision was dimming a bit. He was exhausted and he did not know how to properly fight this walking nightmare.

“Billy.” He heard Darian speak out that name, “It’s only for that rookie Walrider you are able to get into frequency…” As Darian was talking, suddenly, he was transported into a white, blank space. Nothing was around but he saw Billy, Darian and himself, naked and in a small centre. “But…” he heard Darian’s voice outside in the physical world and in that white space, “If you interrupt my battle.” He grabbed Billy then by the throat, choking him for a few moments, then releasing him, and Billy fell off as there seemed to be porous floor, and made a yell. “I will make sure you never live another day. I will guarantee it with your head on a platter. I will serve it to Dad during dinner just for kicks.” Then Darian approached Miles, “I had commercials. Let’s go back to regular broadcasting.”

Miles felt being hauled to his feel and thrown hard on the desk — a desk he often worked with Waylon and had tea or coffee; once even kissed — break down and the a big plank of splinter got into his right thigh. By this point he was becoming too tired to scream out.

In all this chaos, Tom took out his machete and threw it away and helped his younger twin brother. With Eddie out cold but still having a pulse — with a quick check by Tim — they just jumped out the window into some nearby shrubbery. “Tim,” Tom croaked, blood came into his mouth, “Carry Eddie. Where is Waylon?” coughing out blood, “I heard he was out back.”

“They…got him…” Tim weakly murmured.

“That man has a Walrider. Miles doesn’t seem to have a chance. We all need to escape!”

“What about Waylon!”

Tom looked at his younger brother: “You and I both know he may not be coming along with us.”

Miles tried to go inside that white space again. No such luck. But one time he tried and tried to push Darian. Only to have his real body felt wood stab close…near his heart!

“You know. It’s funny.” Darian heard Miles scream out, tears coming near his eyes, “Doesn’t it feel?” he started twisting the wood and Miles could feel veins and muscles being torn and bruised from the inside, “It almost feels like I am Helsing and you are Dracula. Kind of nice feeling like a hero. Making a makeshift crucifix. All the imagery and what not.”

Miles then grabbed Darian and pushed hard and the younger man’s hand got impaled with the splinter of wood, gaining an enraged cry from Darian, and he rolled around near the exit of the room. Spitting out blood he shouted: “Where is Waylon you bastard?! What did you do to him?!”

“Waylon Park isn’t your concern.” Darian smiled, “I am.”

Miles held his wounded arm. The bone was now more out its skeletal framework as Darian had pulled it. Miles imagined he might have gotten thrills, the sadistic fuck. But Miles had to try. There had to be something —

Miles saw Darian look upstairs: “It seemed Habrok managed to almost start a fire.” Then Darian smiled, “Let me raise the bar by finishing that idea, no?”

Miles saw him stake out multiple logs from the larger fireplace and just throw them onto things. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“C’mon babe.” Darian laughed, “Don’t disappoint me.”

Miles looked helplessly as everything started to catch fire.

“Everything burns like Mount Massive doesn’t it Miles?”

As though he was reading his thoughts. Miles panic attacks were coming again; he had been distracted by the white space and physical pain. Now, it resurged. Darian did nothing. Just watched and grinned. Miles looked at him with anger. That sick little fuck is enjoying all of this!

Upstairs, Habrok seemed to make slashes on metal and marble to help accomplish some fiery pit. As if to please his host and love and to make the lodge burn faster.

Miles then closed his eyes. He could feel his tears. _Wallie listen, let’s use this…_

“I can’t move Miles.” Wallie’s voice etched out, his body becoming skeletal nanomachines, as though the machine couldn’t keep up his fleshy like form. They had lost most of their concentration. Some parts of his body was beginning to look like paint daubs in some modelling software. Like a draft going wrong.

_Let’s try Wallie, for us, for Waylon and the others…_

“Okay.” Wallie felt that strange pulse he had felt before — which now he had to identify as Habrok’s static presence — he looped into that, like small knot holding personal letters. Miles was transported back to the white space for a moment. And then he yelled.

Paper and fire, in the respective libraries, sent running like daggers to Habrok and Darian. “Shit!” the latter screamed as he also used an energy ball to encase himself which was soon translated also to Habrok. “Slicestorm! Counter with me!” They seemed to use the force and plummet it in a vacuum which was their greyish energy ball.

Miles had started walking towards the main door and Wallie just seemed to vanish…using his last ounce of energy to become smoky aura…

By then the energy ball became big. The paper fell down and the fire that was rushing across them…

…blew Miles out the front door. Burning a side of his face. And most of his limbs. His jeans and flannel shirt were burned.

As he plummeted out those front steps, he felt he was dying… he could feel it…Walie was screaming too as though he was burning more hotly with the fire.

As he lay on the grass he heard Darian come out. “Well, that wasn’t half bad Miles. But I guess this tango has to end.”

Darian looked at the house. It burned and the crackling and singing made him grin. Habrok materialised behind him and embraced him, putting his chin on his head. “Good job my beautiful.” He tenderly caressed the longer face of his Walrider who cooed and sighed. “Look, Miles Upshur, even Bertha Mason would love this fire.”

He seemed unprepared when a machete hit him between his lower ribs and Habrok was gonna after the assailant only to have Wallie materialise and use the element of surprise to finally successful give him a clawed slap that made him also hit a nearby tree.

It has been Tim who had hung out to one of their machetes. In his shoulders was Eddie. “Run!” Tom carried Miles in his arms and screamed at his younger brother.

While running he pocketed Miles burned jeans. “Dammit! I am sure he was carrying the car keys!”

They got inside the Jeep Tim got into the back and just locked the doors manually. Made Eddie slip into the back seats with him and seemed to just give up though hopefully said: “Thank God the car was unlocked for before.”

“Here.” A halfc-conscious Miles brought out the key. And Tom put him in the passenger seat and put the key into the ignition.

“I can drive a bit I am getting us out of here!”

In his dimming conscious Miles felt Wallie in his head, no longer fully material, sitting half-phased on him, coughing, “ _I don’t know. I feel numb.”_ His voice was barely audible.

As the car wheezed to life and Tom pushed the peddle Miles saw that Darian had Habrok help him bring out the machete from his ribs and Darian clutched the wound. Grinning and laughing. Suddenly, he saw Habrok clumsily full of smoke bring someone…

…it was Waylon! Unconscious! With a gash to the side of his head!

Habrok was singing some locks of Waylon’s hair in his mouth but then dropped him. Miles imagined that he must have looked when he came out out of Mount Massive when Waylon saw him. _Waylon, no, wait, I am sorry…_

And the jeep drove off.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, guys. That was the first book of Shadow Engines. This took basically a year to write. It was the longest writing project I ever undertook and actually FINISHED. Well, basically, the first book anyway. But I finished something. Well, hope you guys are going to like the sequel. I hope the finale to Enigma Perception was something you liked? Please review and let me know! :D And yes, many of the plot points I did not explore here, or mentioned, I will follow them through in Book 2. Thank You again for coming with me this far and reading this year. It has been one incredible journey and Thank God I finished it! Well onwards towards Book 2!


End file.
